The Wooing of a Paramedic

a poem about leaving home in an ambulance

Photo by Marco J Haenssgen on Unsplash

The song of the somnambulist

that sirens off the ambulance

is a dirge to dirty dreams:

curtains twitch (suburban, rich),

pharaohs in or out of pitch,

the next-door neighbour’s

partner-switch to dance floor lasers -

red-blue-red-blue

panda-eyed adrenaline -

two Guinness giddiness for

the approaching paramedicine:

“An ambulance is far too cute for the

likes of you! Another public service

spent on misspent youth!”

Unimpressed; bloody mess,

I don’t need another adulteress.

Ambushed eye’s hanging out

with Midir: “You’re a far cry from

the finest woman in here!” Wait . . .

Somebody sabotaged the wheels of

that chariot, when was the last time

someone saw Iscariot? Hotfooting

parallel to the Prom on Church St.

but he can’t have gotten that far,

running in his bare feet.

And I wondered . . .

If this wasn’t the event

that marked the advent of a

particular schism into atheism,

or a break-out bout of

college absenteeism?

Isn’t it? . . . What have I got left?

A sore head, sad taste,

bedside pride, sloping face,

the sly hunters slinking off

to pussyfoot, chastised -

Why do I feel so God

damned dehumanised?

I can’t take the throne,

but its all in the bone,

rubber fingers cauterised,

strobing lights decolourised.

I’m done with the jokes

but I can’t stop laughing,

at the Cailleach in the Causeway

temping radiography and

all that meaning will be exorcised

as the paramedic’s just aphorised:

“You know a man disfigured,

he can never be chief,

siphoned straight to the front,

but in the passenger seat.”

“Well . . . maybe I’ll just take

a wee lie down here;

I can’t feel my face

from my brow to my ear.”