Each morning, the white sun rises over Jasper Street.
It peeks over the maple trees,
it hides from cloud to cloud,
and finally, chasing hope, it sears
through the windows of the east wing.
The children of the third floor are awake.
Sitting up slowly in stiff cotton beds,
they order their cereal,
Oxygen removed and IV poles unplugged,
shaky legs and cold hands make their way across the room.
A l o n e, they view the cars passing by.
A l o n e, they admire the robins.
A l o n e, they curl up on slick leather chairs
and sniff roses received ten days ago.
Noses pressed against thick, smooth glass,
they watch the world they are missing.
and they miss the world they are watching.
But Superman soars past Jonathan’s window,
and Gracie spots pixie dust scattered through stars,
and the airplane, to Thomas, is a great, puffing dragon,
saying “Hello” from time to time.