For many years I have lived with a chronic pain condition which can make even the simplest setbacks... This poem, called The Kindness of Neighbours, reflects on what happens when the lift (elevator) in a block of flats breaks down unexpectedly.
The Kindness of Neighbours
Bank holiday Monday.
Tea and polenta cake
with friends who were not
real friends yet but
Zoom companions who'd
united over our Wednesday
morning chats as we
encouraged each other
and the dying
ones we loved with
lockdowned-care.
It was dry.The polenta cake
that is, not my new Zoom friends
who were old and fun in the way
older people often are. Talking
about parties and clubs they
attended - taking the care and
loss of loved ones seemingly
in their stride - and putting
quiet me to shame.
Home.
Lifts - broken!
Both of them - broken.
Stranded on the ground floor
112 steps from here to home.
My legs, newly mobile,
cannot do this journey.
I.
wait.
for.
the.
En.
gin.
eer.
Polenta cake. Forgotten.
New friends. Forgotten.
Neighbours wander in and out.
Sympathetic eyes turn to me.
"We will help you up the stairs," someone says.
But my legs, newly mobile, cannot do this journey.
I.
wait.
for.
the.
En.
gin.
eer.
Mrs Mo on floor three
sends her second son downstairs
with mango juice and kind words.
I.
wait.
for.
the.
En.
gin.
eer.
Finally.
He arrives.
Young, inexperienced.
Lifts still broken.
He escapes the building and
yells to me from the safe seat
of his van."Emergency in Finsbury Park.
I'll be back within the hour."
I.
wait.
for.
the.
En.
gin.
eer.
Susanna on the third
comes home with husband and
children. Bank holiday-tanned
and laughing. "Not the lift," she groans.
"Do you need a hand to get upstairs."
I.
wait.
for.
the.
En.
gin.
eer.
9 pm.
Iwaitfortheengineer.
Susanna's husband reappears.
"We cannot leave you here," he says.
And half-carrying, he helps me.
Third floor.
Rest.
He pops back home and
returns with a cuppapainkillers.
My legs, newly mobile, cannot do this
journey.
Rest.
Fifth floor.
A young couple, boyfriend-crutched,
hobbles past.
"Rock-climbing," he says, "Broke my leg."
"Wales?" I ask.
"Vauxhall," he replies.
"You can do rock-climbing in Vauxhall?"
I wonder.
But he has hip-hopped on.
Finally! Home.
I ease into the deep
comfort of my sofa.
Touched by the
kindness of my neighbour who
took time to help.
And indeed
this would have been the perfect
story if I had not lain in bed for four weeks
afterward, dosed up on strong opiates,
unable to walk at all now,
and enduring unrelenting pain.
Mrs Mo on floor three
hears of my plight and sends
her second son - upstairs
this time -to aid me with
more mango juice
and kind words.
And for now?
I rest... my legs, newly
immobile, and
I.
wait.
for.
the.
Doc.
tor.
And long for the day
I can savour polenta
cake and the
laughter with new
Zoom friends once more.
