Boxing Day: A short and trite poem about a short and trite crisis

'Twas the day after Christmas and all through our pad
Are the remnants of presents from mom and from dad.
The stockings, still hung by the chimney but slack,
Now emptied of stuffers 'til Santa comes back.

My nine-year-old curled up and green in my bed --
She's been puking since dawn in her jammies of red.
And I in my sock feet and Nick is... somewhere...
The barn, or the dog park? Just getting some air?

When from the back of my brain there arose such a clatter,
I sprang to my laptop to see what was the matter.
What had I forgotten in my mental lapse?
Would the delicate balance of family collapse?

The list and the calendar, both kept with such care,
In attempt to keep sane. (Well, those and much prayer.)
Though what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But an item that showed I was not in the clear.

I drew in my breath and re-checked the date,
Hoping and wishing it would not be too late
To get to the pharmacy and pick up a script
For my father-in-law -- 'twas on him I had slipped!

He lives by himself and does rather well,
But in matters of memory, he does not excel.
Nor will I, is my guess, when I'm eighty-two.
When it comes to prescriptions, he has quite a slew.

Parkinsonism and prostate inflated,
Peripheral neuropathy -- to these he is fated.
But still how we love him, and still how we hope
That he finds some relief and that we help him cope.

Now it is my job to keep his pills straight
And get them to him without any wait.
I sprang to my phone, to my hub gave a ring
And asked him, on his way home, by Costco to swing.

He said that he could, and my crisis was solved.
From my egg-noggy brain I would soon be absolved.
Poor dad would have his Tamsulosin, and still
I could stay with my child, so puny and ill.

Thank heavens for teamwork and pharmacist friends.
All's well once again as our panicking ends.
In truth we are lucky, despite all the hustling.
Gilda said it best:  It is just "always something."

We have access to drugs and for them we can pay;
That's a blessing we count on this Boxing Day.
Now you'll hear me exclaim, ere I take a vacation,
"Happy Christmas and peace to the Sandwich generation."