Countdown
as the blip of the machine
rhythmically counts down
like the clock on a bomb
I sit and write down
my thoughts my doubts my love
I write you a letter and put it down
on the little metal topped cabinet
as if the words will flow down
into the little tubes that lance your skin
but i am not down
i am full of hope
that when they trolley you down
to the cold clean theatre
the masked men that look down
at your lovely face
will see the answer and the grace
as they lift you up
and pull you through
and return you to me, my love, my love
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