That song

I remember the cheap classroom clock
in the back of the ambulance
and your groan as we hit each speed bump,
the dried out apple core
peeking from under a trolley
with black pip-eyes,
and me being sent home
when your family got there:
I fried sausages to pass time
then watched a sitcom about hospitals
that started exactly as they slit you open.

Nights later, you switched on the radio
and that song flowered
from floppy stalks of headphone leads
and perhaps it was the morphine,
or your body rejoicing to be
relieved of several septic inches,
but the music gleamed, you said, like sunlight.
In the dark she was singing words into you
and those words fixed you.