She is too ill today
Not a day to feel poetic
Virus laid fever's prey
Pray work the antibiotic.
Her eyes today in weakness closed
Her head sunk in pillow
Verses are dry in a mind morose
Pains her face in fever's glow.
At six o'clock I whispered to her
Time for the antibiotic
She saw me in a hazed blur
Not a word she could speak.
Teatime came she didn't get up
I still made it for two
In trembling hand she held the cup
She couldn't refuse my brew.
Gnaws me despair when she's ill
Still a novice at basic kitchen work
Never learned the skill to make the day's meal
Where are things I grope in the dark.
She says feels no good to lie down like this
My fever is gone with the sweat
I know for anything she would ever miss
Seeing me off at the gate!
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