The Thief

When I saw the boy steal
the Chocolate, I did
not know what to do.

Should I tell?
Like kids tell.

Should I glare?
As if to say,
you're bad.

He was small, pale and whips
of cinnamon hair hung
over his eyes – oily limbs
reaching out for his
freckled nose.

From the corners of these
sheltered eyes he
watched me as I
watched him, and I
pondered his crime.

Ready buddy? Let's go,
a fussy voice called out
from somewhere beyond
the processed meats
copper-top batteries
travel-size medicines

– more telling than asking,
four words to sever
our silent standoff.

If I told the man
about the boy,
would he scold
him in front of everyone?
to teach humility.

Would he march the thief
to the front
to make him apologize?
to teach shame.

Would he beat the boy?

The man and the thief
walked to the door
beyond the door
to an aging, rusting
blue and white car.

On his way out, the thief
turned to me
and smiled.

And so did I.

-jkh