G - Sonnet for the bedside brigade

We pack of wretches destined, ill, to go
To hospitals and clinics, weeks on end:
Let's give it up for rocks who come to show
A patience to a patient hard to lend.

You sit and smile and bring us grapes and news,
Whilst in return you catch a bulldog stare.
You cry yourself to all the sleep you lose
Then leave the house (it's worse for you in there).

And five til seven you'll be back around -
Your grafting day augmented by two hours -
Rewarded so ineptly by the sound
Of saline drips and softly wilting flowers.

An insult to an injury, no doubt:
We take your love for granted, in or out.