Notes From A Hospital Room

Home again, home again,
Jiggity Jigg.
I'm stuck back again bedside,
I'm in the Kid's Brig.


A recliner for a bed,
that doesn't recline.
On food rejected by airlines,
for each meal do I dine.


With a shower that trickles
and towels three inches wide,
In a more expensive less luxurious room
I could not abide.


My window looks out
on a wall made of brown bricks.
At all hours of the night maintenance
the phone, TV and clock do fix.


But it's the best room there is
for my son to get well,
so with zero amenities,
it's still heaven, not hell.


Paul's getting better.
He plays with his feet.
He coos and he gurgles,
it's his mother that's beat.


He rolls in his bed
and rips off his leads
and frustrates the needle nurses
with how little he bleeds.


He's still eating well,
and kicks during exams,
so the doctors have concluded,
like his mother, he's a ham.


Paul's condition is improving
and with it, his mom's
at this very expensive exclusive vacation
in a very small room.


So when we wean off the oxygen
and they remove the IV
we promise to write more
than rhyming poetry.