At Whipps Cross

I'm gazing at a ceiling,
designed by a minimalist

My patience screams,
my eyes drip.

The caffeine addicts,
chase nurses for small change.

I could have a cigarette,
from my overcoat.
What with its loose tobacco,
dark secrets,
and sorrow.

But I don't want to smoke,
these days.

So I'll wait.
Me and my baby,
in the Clair de Lune.

Just us.
Mr Debussy,
the coughing,
and my severed head.