With Niamh in Harcourt Street Children's Hospital

The intravenous drip machine doggedly
hums through the night,
breaks into fits of frantic ticks
as if it wants to fight its way out of the room.
I have my comforts: book, newspaper, flask of tea
and  most importantly: a naggin in my briefcase.
A child wails on the wards, always;
shoes clack on tiles;
you, inscrutably
suck on your soother;
I eye the briefcase.

Padraig O'Morain

If you've any comments on this poem, Padraig O'Morain would be pleased to hear from you.