Poem for 16th April posted late

Speck

Green-gold bubbles in your Appletiser
fuss around a black plastic straw.

Another pub, another day
in this uneasy life when
you think you’re dying;
that your heart’s giving in.

Nothing reassures you:
not the perfect ECG print-outs
pinned to the notice-board
not pulse-readings
that are more than fine;
blood-pressure, spot on.

You feel all this: that’s the truth of it.
No one doubts you looking out
from the land of health
at you growing smaller
sailing away from it.