Every day he arranges his tablets
In the shape of a shaky smiley face
Before he takes them,
And calls me Jeeves as
I slowly help him dress
Before he pretends to comb his hair.
He likes his bed downstairs,
Says he always wanted to live
In a bungalow.
When he has tests,
He calls the doctor Dracula,
And the tubes of life-giving poison
Are anti-kryptonite potions.
Down the corridors, with his stick or wheelchair,
He asks people if they've seen his sheep,
Or challenges them to a race.
When the pain pulls him up,
He says it smarts and offers
To rub some on my head.
It pulls me up too.
Kevin Eaglesfield
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/treatment-2/
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