A clear, plastic tent covers his bed,
placing them in a tee-pee,
like the one they made in the back yard,
sneaked outside under their dad's knowing eyes.

Tubes run circles about his cadaverous body
entering and exiting delicate places
and she sees him racing Matchbox cars around
and around his Hot Wheels track.

He gasps, trying to labor a mucous filled breath
and she finds herself being chased all over the yard,
on a summer day, and him crying out, "You're it!",
as they fall to the grass out of energy and air.

She gently pushes sweat-matted hair away from his
sunken sockets and remembers his blue eyes framed
by shiny, golden hair as he carefully stretched
a Band-Aid across her scraped, little knee.

A nurse invades the sterilized room and scowls
as she thrusts Latex gloves toward her from
the other side of their plastic tee-pee, afraid
to come closer to the young man dying of Aids.

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