POEM - The Sickest

My youngest daughter
The scrawny little chicken
Is pathetic
She was feeling bad
Then got feeling worse
And worse still
Until the fountains of the earth
Burst forth like Noah's flood
And mucus laden moisture
Runeth over her cup
Spilling from every imaginable orriface
And tumbling down
In a ragging deluge
Fit to drown
My poor sickly bird

We took pity on her
Pumped her full of meds
To hit all the symptoms
Bring down the fever
Then dry up the flood
Settle the nausea
And then knock her out cold
And then reassure her
All will be well
And sick isn't forever
And she would not, in fact, die
It just feels like death warmed over
It just seems like you've never felt good
And I know
I've been there
When I couldn't remember
What it felt like
To not be sick
And all the world
Is on the other side
Of a wide murky chasm
But it is not the end
And it will be OK
Little bird
It will be OK