Two years ago I was in hospital,
arriving early in the morning,
for a lengthy operation
with an overnight stay.
Post-Op surveillance.
I had a room of my own.
Left alone to shower,
slip on the theatre gown,
and rest until called.
I stripped, showered,
and opened the wardrobe door,
to hang up my clothes.
The hangers were already occupied.
A neat grey suit,
trousers precisely folded ,
a dark Fair Isle sweater,
and a pair of shoes.
Perfectly polished brown leather shoes,
chisel-toed.
Rolled socks stuffed inside.
I put my clothes in my rucksack,
the perpetual traveller,
always ready to move at short notice.
I lay there wondering,
working the clues as we writers do.
Had the previous incumbent not returned?
Died on the table,
or been hurriedly whisked into ICU?
I’ll never know,
but the morning after,
when I took my first cautious steps,
the empty man in the wardrobe was gone.
Nice poeming, Gyppo.
You create something substantial from almost nothing at all. Your imagination, curiosity and powers of observation are a credit to you.
You could be right. I’m not a suit person. I’ve never owned a suit, and hire one for weddings if I absolutely have to. I can make the smartest suit look like something from the rag bag, just by wearing the damned thing. They don’t make me feel special, just like a fraud.
I really enjoyed this. It is indeed a strange experience going into hospital and picking up on all those little clues as to what has been there before, is lurking there now and what is to come
