Wash Away The Dream
He rings me that night, saying,
"Oh, are you free? Want to go pub?
It will be a hoot, and I'm paying.
You need a pint after all that blood!"
it's true; it had been a rough shift.
I had just cleaned bed and floor
of not just blood, but piss and sh*t -
a scrubbing down of daily gore.
The doctor called it one hour in,
My hands flaying a flaccid chest,
Veins flat to fluid, adrenaline -
An eight strong team had done their best.
Mother howling in the next room,
Father tearing up tissues,
Their son had been taken too soon,
The doctor tells them in wet shoes.
"Yes, I would love to," I reply,
As we tuck him into the sheets,
"But do not ask, for I shall cry."
We put some socks on his stained feet.
Nothing can bring me away from -
From the cold chest and from the screams.
Even as I enjoy a pint, Tom,
I still clean the scene in my dreams.