Last time I got my head cut open,
about the only thing I noticed
was the dumpy wooden swing doors
to the operating theatre.
They seemed to me splintery,
and on each was stencilled a quartet
of inscrutable, rune-like figures.
Set against the mint
and stainless steel of the rest of the place
the doors were incongruous, a hangover
from a previous age, when
surgery was performed
with rusty fire hooks
and zero anaesthetic.
I shuffled past in my disposable slippers.