To The Paramedic Scooping Me Into A Body Bag

To the paramedic
scooping me into a body bag after that terrible crash,

sorry that you don’t know my name,
your slaps to my cheek in an attempt
to stir me from my bruised sleep was not enough
of a hit in the face to wake me up and tell you my name.

All you know of me is that I’m five-eleven
with brown hair and bloodshot eyes
and one less shoe than when I began my journey and
in my pockets are nothing except for one receipt
for a Sainsbury’s meal deal I didn’t complete and my wallet.

Open it. Find my name and trace my evening back to
here where I met you and if you look behind that license
and behind that fifty-percent used two-free-cinema-tickets coupon-
a date with myself-
you'll find my heart of the wallet donor card.
Use it wisely.