Recovering Boy

He’s maybe 5. Thrashing, crying
post-op. Three nurses, mom, grandma
wrestle and grab to subdue, soothe,
remove the nasty IV needle in his hand.
Mommy holds him tight,
one nurse finally does the deed,
presses gauze to his tiny bleeding hand.
Minutes pass. His throat hurts.
He does not want juice.
He does not want the toy
Grandma waggles in his face.
Finally subdued, pasted to his mom,
he lifts his little head,
looks Needle Nurse in the eye
and says, “I don’t like you.”
Nearby, an old mama smiles,
observes with tears
for his sore throat, his troubles,
and for the beauty
of nature’s provisions for the young,
their cries inciting calls to action.
An hour later, still pasted to Mama,
he’s finally leaving that nasty place.
He lifts his little head one last time,
looks at Needle Nurse
and shakes his little fist.