WARD 32, WEEK 8

My hands are one short of a soccer team.

My feet make five-a-side.

I rise by pushing off my left hand.

I descend by leading with my palms.

Hand rails, hand holds, furniture grips

Are the resolute friends on which I depend.

My right foot bears weight on the heel.

My left bears all else. Sinisterly.

Salts in my blood grow testy.

My kidneys struggle to pass their molecular bulk.

Sugar in my blood oscillates.

I measure, conclude frailly and dose.

The medics mull, ponder and prescribe.

The nurses test, cajole and care.

I wallow, wait and fret.

Will I ever see home again?