Whether you’re there

for an hour

or the whole day

it’s always like returning home—
to that room in Immunology

where you’ve spent

so much of the past year.
With its two beds

and three armchairs,TV

and handbasin

it brings to mind

images of domesticity

that somehow one’s spirit needs—
the comforting

and familiar, the secure:

what’s easy to touch

and understand.
Tony, the duty nurse

welcomes us

with his happy, boyish smile.

“Darling, how are you today?”

“Fine,” you reply.

“Wonderful! Now let’s get you settled.”

And he does—

in what’s become known

as Kate’s bed.
I settle down

beside you, sit and read TALKABOUT

or the SYDNEY STAR OBSERVER:

learn how hard

it is for people to be accepted,

to be themselves,

and how easily discrimination

rears its proverbial

“ugly head.”
In the meantime

they prepare you for another

bone marrow biopsy

to test the presence

or otherwise

of further leukaemic cells—

and I cringe to think

how a corkscrew needle

will shortly puncture your flesh;
and how you, too,

will have to learn to adjust

to the world outside

this friendly little room—

whether the result

is good or bad.