Sick

in the perfect, present, and future

This week’s poem is about throwing up.

Enjoy!

televised applause for a distant athlete
trickles up the stairs and into the room
where golden light illuminates the bed frame
white cold and metal holding up the mattress
where my sick child lies 

copper coin flavored stale air
slowly stirred by a lazy fan
wraps around the bedside table alarm clock
and crinkles the blue barf bag
which lies beside my sick child

framed prints of places we wish to go
hang on the playful teal painted drywall 
the pinks and whites pop against grayscale
viewed from gold polka dot sheets 
sitting beside my sick child

sweat gathers on the slick plastic side 
of her purple water bottle as she timidly sips
with shaky hands staring into my eyes
insisting that I focus all attention
on my sick child

my hand reveals lines between cells
inflated mounds of blue veins
hers reaches into it small smooth
trembling seeking my touch
comfort for my sick child

she squeaks and chirps
to insist that I stay
place my warm hand on her stomach
slowly circle my palm on her back
sit beside my sick child

push a dent in the mattress beside her
make my presence known to her
as she sits up blue bag in hand
and heaves foul liquids
flowing from my sick child

this continues
and my eyes are tears
my nose is flame
my stomach lurches
I conceal these traits from my sick child

I feel the fluid flow up
through her back
my hand is still there
sensing the convulsing ripples
shaping my sick child

fighting through an embarrassed gag
I offer generic loving encouragements
wondering how much more
liquid could there be
inside my sick child

In wordy wordiness,

Walter