Each morning you’d watch
The door for the nursing officer
To enter the locked ward; you
Watched his arrival, the taking
Off of his hat, the undoing of
His scarf, the nods he gave
To the bemused patients here
And there and the opening
Of the door to his small office
Where he took off his coat
And settled down behind his desk,
And not once did he acknowledge you,
Not a nod or smile, not a greeting
Word or two, just his usual passing by
And ignoring your presence, even if
You raised the hem of your skirt
And revealed a few inches
Of flesh for him to view.
Each day at twelve when the lunch
Came round, he’d come out and do
His rounds of the ward, taking his
Superficial interest in facts and thoughts
And patting heads of patients with his flabby
Hand, putting on the smile, speaking his
Usual words, but you, he ignored,
Spoke not a word, barely looked
At your face or eyes or patted
Your head, just walked on by as if
You were dead, some inconvenient
Corpse laid in his way, day after day.
Each day as evening came and supper
Was eaten and drinks drunk,
He cornered you in the female john
And spoke softy and leaned toward
Your lips and touched your thigh,
Giving you the come on look
With that gaze in his eye, and all
You wanted was for him to
Ignore you and drop down and die.
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