At the Children’s Hospital

Everyone calls you Mom.
The doctors, the nurses,
the cafeteria staff.
You wear it like a sweater
with a little puke on it—
naturally.
They don’t need to know
your name. They know
why you are there.
They bring you a pillow
and a blanket for your
window-seat bed.
They bring you shampoo.
They put medicine into
the IVs at the proper times
and squeeze fluid from
the drainage tube.
They move him onto
your chest so you won’t
have to navigate the tubes
and lines. They tell you
where to hold him.
It starts to feel, if not
like home, homelike.
And when you leave,
they wave and then
they do it all again.