RTC

A and E has a smell to it,
or it would if it wasn't for the masks and the distance,
has police,
cuffed scrote full of seed
hoping for their dog to win.
He gulps water,
calls it a pint - means it as humour,
I don't trust a doctor
who can't judge their measures
and so silently
measure the distance between me
and the nearest not me,
calculate
the length of time I've been sat on my nose waiting to ward
off residue adrenaline
like poltergeists
or apologetic men
who apologise
only after the car crash. I am bruised,
rolling through car crashes.
In stillness
I get the children out,
get the insurance details
to the insurance men,
argue that a decent car seat ensures a decent children is safe,
ensure it is sent before a Friday
wait
and wait
in a waiting room
with a womb begging for a drill to sever
severe feeling,
disconnect
from an easterly wind
blowing smoke through automatic doors,
roll on automatic,
the water Doctor comes to tap again, sings,
all thirty miles and safety and windows and white noise reel
in my head,
not physical.
I want to sever writing.
He comes again,
Pint Measures,
talks about taking my blood,
he looks too chipper.