Looking down the length of a hospital bed,
Coming out of anesthesia, a Carnaby Street
Angel appears as a mod-clad apparition in
High-heeled, knee-length Walking Boots of
White plastic, balanced by a wide white belt
Cinched between a red velvet miniskirt and
Some sort of short-waisted toreador jacket.
Bleached-blonde, ratted hair framing her face;
Frosted lips, slightly parted in a coyish smile;
Dark-mascara tears running down her cheeks;
She is an every-soldier’s untouchable dream:
Sister, friend, lover, wife: girlish vision of home.
What does the mind’s eye see of the warp and
Twist of recollection, with its multi-layered
Memory marked by fractures of forgetfulness,
As seen through the kaleidoscope of time?
