Flying

They were wild with glee, as only

a dad and his young daughter

could be. The clamor they made was

almost indecent in this quiet place.

Our heads turned to shush them,

but then...we caught sight of their joy.

Racing down the hall,

girl-child laughing --

hanging on for dear life,

dad-child gasping --

roaring like a monster truck.

They flew past, auburn curls

streaming in the wind, getting

tangled in dad’s glasses,

filling his mouth with the

coconut shampoo scent of her.

Or would have, if she’d had any hair.

She was, in fact, bald as a cue ball,

rail thin, wearing a white nightie,

her pale feet and legs snaked between

the tubing, the better to grasp

the galloping IV stand. (A more surprised

mount there could not be!)  Overhead,

two or more bags jostled, dripping poison

and salvation even as they ran.

The dad’s arms were wrapped tightly

around his daughter and the dear life

to which she clings, running awkwardly to

avoid tripping, possibly dumping

his precious cargo. He sprints as best

he can against the odds...against time.

They were indifferent to

the noise they made and

to their spectacle.

They were

           magnificent.