What woke me?
Not the silence of the dogs,
delivered yesterday
to their carers,
not the dawning city day
of trams and early
morning workers.
Not the regular breathing
of my sleeping wife
late to bed preoccupied.
Not certainly that I felt
completely rested
and ready for a new day.
No, a phrase lodged
in my mind from last night:
Thursday I have surgery.
(Minor, guys,
a mere 'procedure',
sent home pronto.)
Not till afternoon, luckily.
Pack a few things,
catch a Malvern tram,
alight as instructed,
check in composedly.
Yesterday they phoned
asking about allergies,
medications,
tobacco, drink habits,
could I walk up
three flights of stairs?
and did I have Alzheimer's?
No, I said, rather too firmly.
I should have said:
ask my wife.
And if she'd said Yes,
I could have shouted:
Not me! her! her!
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