We’re watching the TV from the vents of the pediatric ward waiting room.
The walls are painted with a riot of happy dragons and flowering trees
where one child frolics and hugs them all, but we are small enough to read
the tiny dedication in the corner, to a child named Rory
who loved animals and who died when she was nine.
Drag queens glide by like the masts of 17th century schooners.
They have names like Tilly de Fields and Henrietta Kissingher.
Their high heels are taller than we are, and as cruel
as the eyes of the queens are tired, and kind.
They are here to explain to the children that we are all free
to be whoever we want to be, and also that the tumor is inoperable.
We crouch in the vents, in negative pressure and sterile booties.
Our tiny footprints leave messages in Morse code in the dust:
variants of “Kilroy was here” lost in the tidal flow of ventilation.
On television there’s a commercial for something called Fuck Off.
The nurses cover the ears of the children with their room temperature hands.
Size Writes 