Grape Popsicle

No food for three days. Total bowel rest.
My pancreas has turned anarchist, an egg
and soup leaving me unable to walk.
Lying in the hospital bed, I watch commercials
for food, plan my meals, name the snacks
I miss most-apples, bagels, popcorn.
Only electrolytes, pumped through an IV,
are permitted, and, catheterized, my urine
drips into a little bag to be measured.
There is nothing I want more than mouth-
fuls of whipped cream, syrupy flan, yellow
cake smeared with raspberry jam.
Lying on the slippery mattress, I smell
the staff's food from their station-
fried, sauced, roasted, broiled.
The fourth day, a nurse pulls out the catheter.
I lift, from the tray before me, something I
would never buy-a grape popsicle,
the color of a crayon, in a soggy white wrapper
I run my tongue along the ice-furred top.
Nothing has ever tasted so good!
Purple syrup, unnaturally sweet.
Impatient, I bite off chunks, feel the cold
burn as I let it melt before I swallow.