Waving in our doorway, a tiny Tom Brady
wheeled by a nurse with Ortiz's 34 and eye black.
And of course there's royalty —Tiana, Fiona,
Rapunzel —pouring down the hall.
Even the king from Burger King
limps near the nurses' candy station.
The casters on their IV poles squeak
to techno beats bouncing off the tiles
in this wing for injured brains and struggling lungs.
My daughter rustles under her sheets,
nudges her globe of light
atop a scepter matching theirs.
Peering in our door a small skeleton,
bones outside his skin glowing neon.
Behind him a taller figure, cloaked and shadowed.
Make no mistake: our kids are hiding
from Death, who long has prowled these halls.
They're tucking behind hero masks,
stretching the nylon in disguise.
My daughter's mask shovels oxygen to her lungs,
green strap squeezing her cheek,
blue tube like an elephant's trunk.
She nudges the glowing wand again,
pushing back the shadow with a little bit of glitter.
