Interior

The gaunt brown

Look infinite in their decent meanness.

There is nothing of home in the noisy kettle,

The fulsome fire.

The

Suggests the trail of a ghostly druggist.

Dressings and lint on the long, lean table -Whom are they for?

The patients yawn,

Or lie as in training for shroud and coffin.

A nurse in the corridor scolds and wrangles.

It's grim and strange.

Far footfalls clank.

The bad burn waits with his head unbandaged.

My neighbour chokes in the clutch of chloral . . .

O, a gruesome world!