Mother's Little Angel

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There came a frantic knock at the doctor's office door,
A knock, more urgent than he had ever heard before,
"Come in, Come in," the impatient doctor said,
"Come in, Come in, before you wake the dead."

In walked a frightened little girl, a child no more than nine,
It was plain for all to see, she had troubles on her mind,
"Oh doctor, I beg you, please come with me,
My mother is surely dying, she's as sick as she can be."
"I don't make house calls, bring your mother here,"
"But she's too sick, so you must come or she will die, I fear."

The doctor, touched by her devotion, decided he would go,
She said he would be blessed, more than he could know.
She led him to her house where her mother lay in bed,
Her mother was so very sick she couldn't raise her head,
But her eyes cried out for help and help her the doctor did,
She would have died that very night had it not been for her kid.

The doctor got her fever down and she lived through the night,
And morning brought the doctor signs, that she would be all right,
The doctor said he had to leave but would return again by two,
And later he came back to check, just like he said he'd do.

The mother praised the doctor for all the things he'd done,
He told her she would have died, were it not for her little one,
"How proud you must be of your wonderful little girl,
It was her pleading that made me come, she is really quite a pearl!"

"But doctor, my daughter died over three years ago,
Is the picture on the wall of the little girl you know?"
The doctors legs went limp for the picture on the wall,
Was the same little girl for whom he'd made this call.

The doctor stood motionless, for quite a little while,
And then his solemn face, was broken by his smile,
He was thinking of that frantic knock heard at his office door,
And of the beautiful little angel that had walked across his floor.
"Poems For Poem Haters,"
1993
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