The Wallasey Walk-in

At theWallasey Walk-In.

I had walked to the Walk-In
the night before and found it silenced,
under a Pizza Hut of pale-blue roof.
The long gates, prison bar wide
had been closed
over the bark-chipped
lake of car park,
the neon floodlights bored holes then
into the accidentality of being there,
seared the flamepain.
The next day,
inside the Pizza Hut,
carepuzzled people leaned
this way and that,
roamed a few yards
at the half-hours,
in the waiting lounge
before their flight.
Someone, bored by the rack
of health check cards
had jumbled them.
They still portended.
'Antibiotics and flu',
'Antibiotics and sore throat',
'Antibiotics and coughs'
Someone, an older person,
had made one into an aeroplane
to remove the whole question of health,
set it free as birdbeat.
A tiny Sikh girl
returning my grateful smile
sat in the shell-chair
tending her Grandmother,
in for the long haul.
On another shell chair,
a wan boy leaned into
his father's shoulder,
kept his frown on
in bent-double slumber.