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?

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