I.

Cheeks flushed apple-red

blonde curls plastered against dewy skin

eyes glazed with molten July salt 

a stumbling, tadpole-like toddler

please mommy, no mommy 

a primitive, hollow cry

Caressed in a shielding, constrained embrace

pale, malleable hands engulfed by callused ones 

hair tied tautly back, dressed in roomy attire

glimmers of youth in pleading eyes

a mother clutches her child

Papers stamped by ink-black prices and labels,

Poland Spring water, Terra Chips - unsalted,  

Infant formula tumbles out of 

bulging, white bags - plastic yet,

will be reused

10 cents is a dime too costly

prying eyes observe,

crude child versus apologetic mother

in between, a baby blue mask refused to be worn

fraying edges, adorned by a yellow duck

distressed 

is the mask

is the child

is the mother

II. 

the battle has ceased

curious spectators retreat into their lives

checkout lines are trafficked once more

the street is once again silent 

once again cautious

the mother, 

a strand of hair out of place,

grey-toned clothes slightly less smooth

but a flash of triumph in the half-child, half-adult

she watches the boy with an affectionate

sympathetic gaze

the boy,

accepting defeat

a promise of sweets,

rosy cheeks covered by the mask,

eyes no longer watered in pain,

but simply exhausted, 

weary,

desperate to go home