The boy's abuse: premeditated, planned, arranged
without my own consent, but if I sat there without
even slightly intervening, would he blame me later?
His screams escaped from cracks around the
door that kept him in, but wouldn't keep me out if
I had opened it. A door behind which rough hands
held him down, held him tightly, pain inflicted
without mercy. And when I heard his cries, I
sat there, moving not a muscle for a rescue.
Instead I turned the pages of a glossy magazine,
waif-like women clothed in outfits that would
cost my wages for a year, wincing at the screaming
little boy, well remembering that helpless feeling
when a child's too young to understand he has to get a shot,
too angry at his mother to believe her when she tells him that
the pain will go away and would he like a treat
when they are done? And as I roll my eyes at wasteful,
too-expensive fashions I don't even think are pretty,
here he comes, the brave and somewhat less-trusting
little man who now can register to go school, but not today.
A Happy Meal is in his future first, I think. (I hope.)
(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014
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