Night and day

by Olayemi Olusanmi, SRN

Clap for me again, you morons. 

You have no notion of how it is  

Temping night shifts masked and goggled, 

Juggling bed pans full of piss. 

Threading tubes into raw throats 

To hook up to aged respirators  

The almost wraiths that pack my wards, 

Some in beds; others lie on the floor. 

The numbers keep on rising. 

Hospitals overwhelmed, insecure, 

Underfunded. Who gives a damn? 

I fear we're all doomed for sure. 

The gown I wear should be sterile. 

It's not. We must reuse, make do. 

Fast tracked fat cats don't deliver. 

They just give me the Covid blues. 

Will an end come to my shift? 

It seems to go on and on forever. 

There are times I find I wish  

That death would take us all together. 

Time comes. Early morning I'm abed, 

Ready for hours of slumber mellow. 

But am I permitted to take my rest? 

Alas, I have a ghost who is yellow. 

I refer not to the spirit's colour. 

It does not manifest that way. 

Rather it is itself affrighted  

Of the dark. It haunts by day. 

He or she, I have no notion. 

It has no earthly embodiment. 

I know it's there, due to its tiresome  

Habit: chattering that is incessant. 

“The alleyways, the alleyways, 

So distant was my accommodation. 

If I remained on avenues bright, 

It so prolonged my peregrination. 

“I would depart my place of work  

Before the sun rose up,  

Before the city bustle starts. 

I suppose that is just my luck. 

“My daily duty’s hygiene, 

I suppose. I wield a broom, 

A mop, a bucket, disinfectant. 

I cleaned out infirmary rooms. 

“All work that must be done at night, 

At least that's what they say. 

For me it meant I almost never  

Saw the city by light of day. 

“Not that the sky is ever blue. 

It's aye obscured from sight  

By smoke from hearth and workshop. 

In those days, I preferred the night. 

“But my journey could be cut by half,  

If through alleyways I would creep, 

Coming off of my nocturnal shift  

To spend day in blissful sleep. 

“Creep I must, since there was no  

Illumination in those lanes. 

Others too would thither slither. 

That is how I came to be slain. 

“Here among the working poor, 

We're lucky to have a room. 

I was killed for pennies in my coat. 

Thus, now I fear the gloom. 

“But here are you in my old place, 

The answer to all my prayers. 

With you I can at last find peace, 

Telling my tale, layer by layer. 

“Recounting it brings catharsis, 

Works to free me of my ills. 

I say frankly now I'm feeling  

Best of all since I was killed.” 

I cannot stand it. It would not  

Be so bad if there were pain  

In how its tale it relates, 

But ghostly joy drives me insane. 

Even earplugs don’t suffice  

To shut out incessant chatter. 

On it goes, on without cease, 

A contemporary Mad Hatter. 

I have taken sleeping pills. 

I've tried vodka, whisky, gin. 

None provides the desired result. 

The wittering wraith always wins. 

It keeps me from essential slumber, 

Leading to lapsed concentration, 

When to nursing duties I return  

Serving an ungrateful nation. 

People are dying; more will succumb  

In this terrible pandemic. 

I too share culpability  

Due to endless spectral polemic. 

What to do? I cannot think 

Or develop the fine strategy  

That will lead from present impasse  

To a better way to be. 

Should I pack up my worldly goods, 

Relocate to another pad? 

Where shall I find the energy? 

Won't my rental cost just add? 

Should I myself then end it? 

There are products in my place  

Of work that I can steal. 

Shall I seek amazing grace? 

No, there must be another way. 

If I accept diminished pay, 

Maybe I can change my shift to day. 

At work tonight, that’s what I’ll say. 

I must get there without delay. 

Here, I'll go through this alleyway. 

© Richard J J Bridle

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