Sonnets

Walk down locked and empty streets alone,
arrive for start of shift, it's bear-the-brunt time
to serve some others' families not your own
Going from the home front to the frontline

Frozen pay, now tiny, ice-cold 'offers', 
red-bordered bills alert approaching deadline
The firing line ignites key workers' coffers
Going from the frontline to the breadline

• after Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Day 1 confined to room - no going out

Day 2 do push-ups, Netflix, clean the floor

Day 3 phone friends and scrub the tiling grout

Day 4 a breakfast bag outside the door

Day 5 phone friends and tell them how I'm feeling

Day 6 lean out the window for some air

Day 7 sit-ups, Netflix, clean the ceiling

Day 8 phone friends to tell them I still care

I’d like to get out but the lift doesn’t work
And my knees are too weak for the stairs

I meant to get out but the telly keeps telling me
People like me should be scared

I was going to get out but the place that I’d go to
Has signs saying 'closed' on the door

I’d still have got out but the lady who went with me
Doesn’t come round any more

When Rosa gazed through prison bars to street
She saw the water buffalo which drove
The heavy coated cart on cloven feet
And when they could not pull their weighty load
Their master turned his whip and beat and strapped
Until they bled and flinched and hauled and strained
The final yards, their last resources sapped
And stood, defeated, bloodied, sad and pained

She’s safely shut in and yet Hettie gets out
And she goes to the places she cares most about

Hettie gets out under cover of dark
And she pushes the kids on the swings in the park

Hettie meets Beryl who moved out last June
And they chat about old times and tap out a tune
And then Hettie tells Bel she’ll be joining her soon

The NHS is not another country
Going to clinic's not a trip abroad
Its purpose is for treating not for hunting
No frontiers from reception to the ward
I have to cross the town not cross the oceans
A hospital's no tourist trap now, is it?
Rather than the needles, stitches, lotions
So many other sites I'd rather visit
Not smuggling drugs nor medicines nor pills in
The staff are healers, they're not border guards
I've nothing to declare except my illness
I don't send postcards, I get Get Well cards
- They treat my sickness not my shade of skin
- Why should I need a passport to get in?

Blood sprayed across the ticket hall floor
Capes caught and torn in moving rails
Horns and scales and devils’ tails
Make-up smudged some hours before
Biting, fighting, broken jaw
Cuts and slashes, tears and gashes
Blades and bottles, glints and flashes
Of steel, red handprint on the door
Claws and punches, noses broken
Howls and screams and curses spoken

Concealer hides the redness and the bruises
Long sleeves disguise the marks along her arm
A bangle covers twisted wrist contusions
A bandage shields her fractured thumb from harm
Dark glasses screen her puffy eyes and tears
Uncertain smile conceals the broken tooth
The scent he bought her drowns the smell of fear
A well-told story masks the brutal truth
The curtains shut out busybody neighbours
Just punching her emotions leaves no mark
His patronage buys sympathy and favours
Control her movements, keep her in the dark
- His hand across her mouth ensures her silence
- His public image veils his private violence

Your breathlessness feels like asphyxiation
You've missed a deadline for some bureaucrat
You're sighing, crying, busting with frustration
I'm sure there is a therapy for that

The lights and noise and pressure make you dizzy
The heat is burning up the thermostat
I'm sorry but the therapist is busy
I'm sure there is a medicine for that