Autobigraphy of the Medication Trolley

 Poem by Terry Simpson

 

My ancestor was a wooden horse,

innocent on Troy’s hot plain,

deceptive and ambivalent.

I am a dream of science,

restless on a stormy, medieval night,

my mother a witch who must be tamed,

screaming down the hallway

at furious priests.

I am related to the drinks trolley

Edinburgh to London,

Hot tea and coffee,

crisps and Danish,

chocolate and Heineken,

need a receipt mate?

My arrival on the ward is the climax of the day.

They line up like penitents to Mass, 

craving forgiveness.

Nurses hand down the Holy Tablets,

(sometimes too the Syrup),

and the patients are redeemed.

They go back to doze before Deal or No Deal,

or to their beds to dream of Salvation,

(known as Discharge

in contemporary parlance).

My ancestor was a wooden horse.

Now I sit on the beige linoleum,

inside me psych-active warriors

Waiting their chance to subdue

The tiresome barbarians.