it starts with a call, a call from his mother
sophia says “come quick, MacGyver's been hurt
he was just on his way home from saving the world again,
he got jumped by some kids, he went down, now he's dying?
so i threw on my coat an ran out the door,
sped through the night to the old hospital,
where the doctors said to wait, so i camped in the ward,
watching the clock as it haemorrhages time so slow
and i've lingered here so long
the air in here so cold
the shallow breath so quiet
the shibboleth of MacGuiver laid bare,
flat on a table, blackened by bruises he couldn't explain
and there was nothing he could build
to save himself out of biros and blue-tack
they opened up his cavities in the operating theatre,
but the doctors couldn't find a heart,
his lymph glands running motor oil
his calloused fingers lie inert,
their intricate ability punctured by
the god-shaped hole in adolescent consciousness
he couldn't build a bomb to mend the splinters of his broken heart
his home-made radar couldn't find a way to make his weapons art
MacGyver bleeds out all of his rationalism
isaac newton, your lever is not long enough
the scottish enlightenment a sinking ship
so i left the hospital with the bleep of life support machines a memory