to calm a crying child
is to hold him, sick, with
tears and rhinorrhea merging into
a single stream of utter fear and despair

a wailing tub of pure anxiety
and walk around the unit, calm, whispering
into his undictionaried ears

to shh shh shh
over his terrified babbling consonants
pointing at the dolphins that splash in the wallpaper

to rock back and forth
and bounce up and down
as though the two of you are in a plastic buoy
drifting in the sea

far away from this hallway place
of hand sanitizers
and golden gowns
and pinch-nose masks

until he falls asleep drooling on your pillow shoulders
as you realize that deep inside
your hardened adult shell
you are wailing with him,
wishing someone would let you weep into their shoulders too.