pants

Hold his legs with my right
I grabbed his black underpants
with my left. Gave a determined
pull - sound of a seam giving.
His neck seemed all awkward,
so I propped his head on a jumper.
His left leg looked like an
elephant's, grey and dried,
a bloody hole filled with
sticking bits of toilet roll.
Got the pad off, threw it on
the floor by the low gas fire.
A careless wipe with a damp
tea towel. Maneuver white pad
over the heavy black skin, dead
weight, grey bloody sore mess.
Didn't bother with the underpants
just pulled on any pair of
pants and never mind the torn
flies. Trainers. Sit up. Warm
jacket. Up you get. But not
a hope down four flights of
stairsandthenthefrontsteps.
So I gave up and called for
an ambulance. Two of them
carried him downstairs strapped
in a stretcher-chair. "You'd
never have managed him" -
said he might lose his leg
with that neglected ulcer.
I - no - I don't care as a rule
- though lots of others care.

flat out

Fresh from her bike ride,
grey-haired, she stretched
her black leather gloves.
She dealt with each finger
in turn then blew in them
- little balloons of hands.
Smoothed them flat. Put
them in her desk drawer.
A few years later she was
dead - heart failure, they
said. And sure wasn't she
a gentle soul. When you
think of all the children
who went through her hands.

gloves and underpants

he
said the hard part is
making yourself vulnerable

she
said you can't say that
sort of thing

i
wrote about the gloves