The 4 Lists Poem

Here is my attempt at a poem based on the workshop we did with Joel last Saturday:

White coats. Waved goodbye.
As my bed pulled out from Platform Three.
Tired eyes failed to focus on the five a day.
Hands on the station clock were a blur.
And they ticked too loud to hear the microwave.

My escape from excess. My blood drained away.
As white as the fluorescent lights against the leeches.
My sleeping subconscious refused to eat all its greens.
Worried about the dream interpretation.
Perhaps it was the anaesthetic.

How did it come to this in the age of steam?
Performing surgery on the sweet and sore.
I began to fall. Down towards the yellow custard.
Being greedy. A needle got stuck in my bleached white teeth.
I waited for the nurse to bring my fork.

Small cuts were a recipe for disaster.
I spotted a lone doctor with a plate.
‘An improbability’ someone screamed.
I awoke to the sound of the station tannoy.
‘Tickets please.’