Stripped to socks and jockey shorts,
not my floral ones,
I come out from behind curtains
in a loose gown.
There are the CT machine,
not unlike some kind of conveyor belt,
the operator, and her accomplice.

“Up onto the table, dear,” says the operator.
I vault as best I can.
“Edge up a bit more, dear, you’re quite tall.”
She has bent herself till her mouth is close to my ear.
I don’t mind if she keeps on calling me “dear.”

“Just going to pump some coloured liquid into you.
Won’t colour you, dear, just your veins.
So as they glow red and show up nicely.
Drink plenty afterwards and it’ll soon wash away.”

Pause. I won’t watch the syringe.
The accomplice is concerning herself with a pot plant,
pinching off a leaf.

“But prepare yourself, dear, for the hot flush.”

I mumble to them both,
I won’t be fazed by anything.
Fact is, it seems rather like an adventure,
like my recent ride on an ancient tram
that turned halfway through its journey
into a funicular.

Bio: David Cobb