The green mist descends whilst those around turn up the volume and align the laser to within a hair’s breadth of a voice spent.

Clicks one and two ensue followed by five more as I keep the score. The eyelids are squeezed tightly to the curvature of the ball beneath it and the brow drags down from the crown to the frown.

The lips speak no more and the cheeks have puffed their last as they too are compressed, sealed tight within the mask.

The heart beats quicker as the mind begins to flicker. Racing from A to Z via an algorithm or some made up trigonometry in my head.

Holidays from years gone by come and go as the clock ticks down and still you lie there afraid to move a muscle let alone frown.

There’s no room to look up nor down and your ears strain to every change in the sounds around. And still you count.

Keep the count going but not backwards as that leads to disappointment when you reach the end and still no one transcends.

The feet are now sore as they too are clamped to the table and their only escape is to curl around the sharp edges around which they are disabled.

And still you count, now in French, Italian or any other tongue just to kill more time until those footsteps start to come.

Like ballet dancers tap, tap, tapping on a pulsing heart, one more click and it’s now over. Just for one day. Please God, when will my recovery start? When will this green mist rise for the last time?

Poem by Nadio Granata

5th June 2021