Richard’s got his wig on.
His luscious locks bob furiously,
cheeks burning as he remonstrates
with stonewall Stella the staff nurse
who stands impassive,
resists the charms of his patent heels
and sheer silky-tighted calves.
She gestures at the sign again,
‘Family only outside visiting hours’
and Bob, decked in leather and Hitler ‘tache
is close to tears.
I wish Cheryl was on today.
She’d let us in, I know,
to sit with Adam
dripping with pneumonia
fevered, lost, alone.
We are his family.
Copyright © Paul Vaughan 2016
Paul Vaughan is a Yorkshire poet. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Seventh Quarry, Sarasvati, Peeking Cat and several online journals. He also edits the poetry e-zine Algebra of Owls.