Pain

Your bare feet slap milk white
on cold tiled corridors.
The hands I hold
push a metal grey pole
of suspended saline,
its casters grumble
against your grimace.

Too small for scars,
for all the bandages
and bruising,
I see your perfect
mouth, it offers me
a false smile and widens
as your stride steps braver.

Slow down my child,
our army needs rest,
the battle will wait
to be fought.
The hospital walls will hold
for one more night.