Asking for Tchaikovsky
to be played during an operation
for an ingrown toe nail

was a mistake. The surgeons
laughed and the stereo leaked
pop bright as the local

anaesthetic painted on my foot.
I wanted his 1812 overture
to thunder through the hospital,

making heartrate monitors thump,
IV drips dance. Bedside flowers
opening like envelopes, spilling

colour onto the grey linoleum;
the way I felt after listening.