well Max you have gone to extremes to produce a snap -perhaps something
lighter next week -hope you not too shaken up cheers P
-----Original Message-----
From: Max Richards
Sent: Wednesday, November 25, 2015 5:44 PM
To: [log in to unmask]
Subject: 'Dark Night of the Ego'
Dark Night of the Ego
In the dark, hard by my home street
Bellevue Ave and East Republican
(Dead End), I tripped and sped
surprised - upwards, it seemed -
then headlong forwards and down
assaulting the stubborn concrete
with my right cheekbone.
My spectacles flew from their
nestling-place - further forwards
into the dark. As I voiced my pain
shock and chagrin, loud enough
to be heard in four apartment buildings,
my mind advised: first secure the dog,
lest she run off trailing her leash.
But no, she was with me, licking
the blood on my knuckles, letting
me grasp again her leash. Next,
find those glasses! For once I’d
pocketed my flashlight as I stepped
out the front door, now I was beaming
it about in vain, trying to guess where…
when a passerby saw I needed help.
He could see my face as I could not.
No way he’d let me walk home with dog
for my wife to clean me up. First, he said,
Emergency, then we find your glasses.
Ian - kind and reassuring - said he’d often
fallen on his face, when not sober.
Myself, not a single glass of wine could
excuse my self-inflicted wound.
Australian? Ian had met some -
‘obnoxious’ he remembered them.
I could have said I was a Kiwi.
I showed him the trigger tripper:
a black metal bed-frame propped
where any careful stroller would notice -
but not a bustling late-night dog-walker
like me. My specs were twisted, better
pocketed. I phoned my wife:
concerned, she reminded me we were
still between insurances, economize!
I stuck with Ian’s advice. ‘ER
won’t keep me long, watch out for Ian
bringing the dog your way.’ He
waits while Emergency sends help.
A fire engine! silent, at any rate.
Three kind strong men - checking
my name and date of birth,
my pulse and blood pressure (high),
till the ambulance arrives.
Oh take me to the nearest Emergency
Room, Swedish have my record.
In the ambulance my ego’s buzzing -
all this attention, costly or not.
Chagrin at falling fades.
Blood pressure’s down.
Lovely women, these ambos
(good Australian word, know it?).
Swedish Emergency seems quiet.
Yes, but busy - lovely nurse says
Doctor will be along but understand
he’s got a patient in every room.
Oh everyone is lovely -
they listen to my egotism,
to every parallel I know:
the night my ear was sewn back on,
that was a tale: the dog I’d tripped on,
its natural defensive nip!
The jokes at work the following week.)
Doctor Soul (how does he spell it?)
promises stitches, but first they need
him for more urgent cases.
Privacy prevents disclosure, but: well,
tonight we’ve three Australians,
one an actor, rushed along
from his end-of-season party!
None of us are dying, or not
faster than everyone else.
No pastor or chaplain stalks
this corridor; besides I’ve told
them ‘No religion, thanks.’
Five hours being thanked
for being so patient. Eight
stitches, may leave a scar.
I mention German-student-duelling
scars. When did they go out?
Proud signs of strong egos!
My scar will speak of how
one doddery senior walking
his dog at darkest midnight
stubbed his toe and took a dive.
Facial skin heals faster than other skin.
My ego speaks of even quicker rebound.
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