THROB

He's wounded.
The man who
charges me
with creative
energy.
He's tumbled
and fallen,
and finds the
painkillers
abroad
to be weak.
He can't
think.
He can't
contemplate
magic
when he's
pounding with
pulsating torment.
I wish I could
Jewish Mother
him to a
speedy recovery.
Poems are
less effective than
chicken soup though...
But it's all I have!
Feel better
Timmy B,
and start
making your
miracles
once again!

Sally