Monday, 14 February 2011
The school playground is cleared of kids,
For all their teenage bravado, they're still kids, and they're scared.
Green uniforms work in a frenzy of organised chaos,
whilst blue uniforms ask questions, keep the peace.
His heart beats, but his lungs are still and silent.
The eyes, the windows into his soul, are glazed, the pupils tiny.
The mask breathes for him, oxygen rushing into the bag and then pumped into the lifeless body.
Cannulas, drugs, oxygen, more oxygen.
And then, suddenly, as the drugs and oxygen nudge into his brain,
he finally breathes on his own.
We tell him.
And warn him.
And threaten him.
Next time, if there is a next time, he might not be in the playground.
Next time, if there is a next time, he might be all alone.
Next time, if there is a next time,
He might not be so lucky.