On the train; up to London
Meet my mother – get on the tube line
Take a stroll through Regent’s Park,
Inner beauty to a gross city

Walk up the steps and in through the door
Round metal tea trays, with doilies and such
Plush leather sofas and armchairs to match
Doesn’t smell like a hospital, it looks far too posh

“Up on floor three, the lifts are round there.”
A receptionist with a terrible cold, how ironic
In the lift, up and out again
Nurses and so forth, all smiling nicely – no reason at all

“Down that corridor, make yourself at home.”
Wander slowly, lagging behind my parents
To an open space, huge doors all around and
A stench of leather, and squeaky chairs

Today’s newspaper, lying on the table
Offers of “Tea, coffee?” and a patient with his visitor
To cut the silence; questions posed to mother,
“What’s your favourite sitcom?”

After a fair wait, the surgeon came from his room
Greeted me and shook my hand
He’s the first one to speak to me, not my parents
“Go right inside, I’ll be right there.”

Powerful wave, of a peculiar smell
More squeaky chairs and a view of buildings
Mister Neuro came back and sat behind that big desk
With his back to the window, and pen in his hand

All symptoms gone through, the umpteenth time
Looked at my scans, and explained the irregularities
Why no normal tumour does as mine does
Then a brief examination, yet another, testing who knows

Back to the desk, and those damned squeaking chairs
A run through of possible courses of action
And that one percent chance, of something going wrong
What he advises, and how long I’d be in hospital

It comes now to the frustrating part
That the little bastard, in there, isn’t causing my pain
That constant headache that won’t – go away
And what Mister thinks it could be

Try not to cry, or get too angry, there’s no point
In crying, it’s already there, too late now
But “Chronic Daily Headache Syndrome”?
What were you thinking man? I’ll soon prove you wrong

Plod back out to the waiting area, and wander off for the lifts
Don’t speak, keep in silence
More smiling nurses, or else strange glances toward me,
Wondering what had made me so angry and glum

Back home for dinner, a somewhat quiet evening
And weeks later it occurs to me,
You know you might be coming toward death
When strangers smile sympathetically at you. True?