Some days,
when you feel you ought
to take care of me,
you make me an avocado sandwich.

My protector,
and I've spent most my days
watching you lie in bed,
dedicatingly bringing trays
and finger paintings
and stuffed "Super Teddy Bears".
I think they are in storage somewhere.

You fight for me, I think.
But it's a strange battle.
And dysfunct wholly,
as we are an institution,
an establishment
which ends easily
and only leaves an impression
on little girls,
and their avocado sandwiches.