Graham Fulton


A pint-sized rugby playing-type doctor
in ill-fitting jeans and rugby top
takes us into his office and gives us the lowdown.
Drop-kicks from the hip, tells it how it is.

No pussyfooting.  No poetry.
No beating about the metaphorical bush.

He’s a hard-tackling scalpel-wielding saviour
in the sinbin of life. There’s a Clooney screen-saver
on his p.c., handsome and dashing in ER days.
The routes to existence a mouse-click away.

He, the surgeon, asks me if
a) I’m prepared for the probabilities
b) there’s anything I want to ask.

There’s nothing. You see, I know
everything will be just fine because
a) this only happens to other people
b) this only happens on TV shows.