Hospital Run

I once had no one in the back of my cab— 

a silhouette, a shadow, a presence, a spectre, 

or something like that. Not much of a talker.

But I felt its ice-box breath on the back of my neck.

I put on my sat nav for conversation 

but its voice sounded like death.  

I slipped onto Winter Lane,

towards the infirmary

and then the car started driving itself.

I shouted at whatever was driving to stop 

but it wasn’t co-operating, and

the steering wheel fought back

It didn’t stop in outpatients

just drove straight on, 

startling patients in orthopaedic gowns 

shuffling out for a fag. 

Porters, receptionists, cleaners barely 

looked up, like they’d seen it all before  

and whatever it was drove like a dream, 

hardly skimming the sides of the hot corridors, 

didn’t dislodge the wonky clocks 

or kids' paintings of flying beds.

It just kept going, 

past Antenatal, Postnatal, ENT, 

infectious diseases, physio, geriatric. 

It powered on to Palliative Care, 

as if it were pre-programmed, 

as if someone had already paid the fare.