THE VILLAIN

He came on the ward at twenty to two, when night time's tightening its hold.
Stubble smeared half of his face, and tattoos smeared his hands and his arms.
A policeman sat all night by his bed,
and there's a record of violence on his head,
to be read in its dents and scars.

He's weak, now, from bleeding;
bleeding too long from somewhere he doesn't know where,
but in his eyes, as he scans the ward, there's the look of the perennial hunter.
We're stupid. we're weak. we ask to be done.
We're sheep in the fold being eyed by a wolf -
a potential meal for one.

But he's weak.Too weak to pounce, too weak to bite, and he's trapped in this bed and couldn't escape even if given the chance.

He's hated or feared most of those in his life,
and he's hated or feared most whom he meets -
but no longer, here on this ward.

He's tended by nurses and wheeled, helpless, by porters, and no one's trying to tame him.
They speak to him gently, are soothing and kindly;
he's a human, a person, he's weak, may be dying,
and he needs all the care they can give,