At the mall food court the little family dines
in lively chat – Mom and Dad; two girls
in early teens, showing the mandatory
inch of midriff; a boy of ten or so
in summer shorts and sandals, squirming away
unspent energy. At last they rise,
their fast food now leisurely consumed.
Still chattering away, the boy pulls out
beat-up crutches from beneath the table,
mounting them with scant attention. Mom
threads her drake and ducklings to the trash can.
Each bears civic duty on a tray,
and one has two. The boy goes last, hands empty
save for the task of getting him around.
Trash duly dumped, the family strategizes –
This way? That way? The boy tripods himself
to take his part, hands gesturing away.
Now off they go. The rhythmic click of ferrules
worn with use sets an easy pace at first;
but soon the scent of commerce tugs the others,
leaving the boy to the lonely way of cripples.
His sister (the one who took his tray, the kind one)
keeps glancing back, hoping none will notice
how she tries to slow the others down.
Sixty yards on, the boy stops at a window.
Catching the watchful eye, he waves the family
back, getting respite as he has them
see what he's discovered. They all go in
the store to look around, while he alone
leans back against a counter, looking on.
