The man in the next bed is still there.

 

I glance at his name, glance away.

His first and second names are the same

as my first and family names.

 

The man in the next bed is still there.

 

He shuffles on legs, thin as an epidemic,

in slippers along the lino of 17

South like a death-camp prisoner. 

 

The man in the next bed is still there.

 

A parallel universe mocks me.

Is his ill-health a hologram of my future?

Will our names compost the earth?

 

The man in the next bed is still there.

 

I return from chemotherapy.

My death-stare eyes bore

the wall across the room.

 

The man in the next bed is still there.

 

His claws grip my shoulder. He

turns me around, smiles and says,

You’ve got to make the chemo work.

 

 

Note:

’17/South’ was the ward for people with HIV/AIDS at St. Vincent’s Hospital, Darlinghurst