Second-Hand

There were aisles of analog
televisions.
"Rooms"
set up with ratty furniture,
paintings out of doctor's offices,
hung on slatted walls.

An oatmealy chair,
green and trimmed.
An old man's dearest
friend. Sitting under
the harsh fluorescents.

A child wanders along
the linoleum halls,
stacked high with
board games and puzzles
missing pieces,
chipped glassware
and stuffed animals with 
matted fur.

He holds a tattered lion,
limp from his left hand.
His mother picks out
coordinating silverware
and old VHS tape
cartoons to play
on the black-and-white tv.

Her son
loves these outings.
These things
that are new to him,
shiny in his mind,
for him.
He has never seen 
a big toy store.
For Robin,
this is his place.

His mother smiles a wan smile,
her eyes rounded by 
worry. She will take
her boy home
for macaroni and cheese
before pinning 
her name tag to 
her starched white 
uniform.
Robin will fall asleep
without her.
In a second-hand bed
with cheap sheets.

This isn't how anyone 
envisions their life
when asked at 16.
But years later
at 26
here is Robin by her side,
and a dank apartment 
awaiting.

Robin knows no difference
between this life
and his mother's old one.
She just takes his 
small sweaty palm
in her smooth
white hand.

He carries his lion tight to his
chest. Warrior boy
and his beautiful mother,
he, master of the 
glasswares
and king over the porcelain
dolls.

Robin walks beside his mother,
his heart swollen with pride.