Temple Street

Twenty nine, different pieces every time. A broken bone here, a re-set there. The wheelchair whirring through the corridors, picking off the girls, chauffeuses, all important, him in his carriage.

Twenty nine times a hobble home, carried to and from his throne, this throne and that one there.

Over and over and over and the nurses know his name, his gummy smile, his quiet way, his face.
Twenty nine times and the one that broke his heart. His father, sent away in crankiness, the nighttime and the screaming at the church outside, the guilt, "he mightn't come back tomorrow. He might think I don't want that."

"Shush, it's ok, he'll come back. Will we phone him?"

"Yes please."

Twenty nine times, the Connect 4 and Tomy Tronics and Operation! and the buzzer. The trolley, the pointy caps, the quarantine next door and the priest saying everything quietly through the halls. The Dettol, the snapshots, teddy bears and triangles. Stethoscopes and listening posts, the waiting and the dreaded ether...