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Copyright: Fred Robel, and Fritz365 2010-2017. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog's author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Fred Robel and Fritz365 with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Monday, January 26, 2015

Little Cough

When the baby's temperature hits one hundred and three
And the tiny breaths come in shallow death rattle gasps
Hand sized blocks wrapped in sandpaper course rasps
Rubbing down the walls in the pediatric ward
Till all the bright colors are gone

Seizures come and seizures go
The why even the MRI machine doesn't know
Where the cathode ray gun parallel lines show
Nothing but a blob of brain damage towards the rear
Explaining maybe why the child's eyes are pointing crazily
"She's most likely blind"said the doctor confirming your fear

What to do?
All the tubes and hoses prevent the cuddling you need to give
And the being six months old is a conversation stopper too
So in a manic moment you grab the sunglasses out of your pocket
Put them on her tiny cherub face
Making a feeble Ray Charles joke
That makes the wife break down in tears instead of the laughter you'd misguidedly hoped

Holding her now you pinch yourself secretly
Thinking that this must be a dreamy kind of nightmare
And how thankful you'd be if you awoke