Somewhere there’s a girl of eight, Her backpack frayed, her feet can barely bear the weight. She counts the coins clutched in her hand, Outside the market where she stands. A list from mama, scribbled fast, Salt, rice, meds and whatever lasts. The grocer slaps the counter and laughs, ‘That’s not enough!’ Her cheeks burn red, dignity’s torn in half. She pockets the salt, quick as a thief, Rice grains and pills slip down her sleeve, The jars clink loud, her pulse a drum, Mama’s cough says; run, run, run. The grocers screaming, a rabid hound, Plums burst where her fear hits the ground. A prayer slips loose, mama’s voice in her ear: “Darlin’, you’re lightning, that fat man is nothing to fear” Stealing’s just a word for “what she had to take”, Jars weigh more when your whole world’s at stake. Mama’s hand trembles, but hers won’t shake: A kid’s love is the law that every law breaks. Somewhere there’s a boy of nine, His hands shake, but his voice stays aligned. Memorized cracks in the hallway floor, Rehearsed “No sir” till his throat’s sore. Boots shake the walls, badges demand, “Where’s the girl with the stolen cans?” He swallows fear, points down the street, “Roof’s where she runs, fifth floor, third suite.” They charge off, his lie holds tight, Her salt-stained hands grabs his... "Thanks for the fight!" He shrugs, Half-hoping they don’t come back for more, Half-proud he stood guard by the door. Lying’s just a word for “what he had to say”, Truth are cheaper when it’s for her sake. His hands tremble, but his words won’t shake: A kid’s first crush is the law that every law makes. The jar now clinks on their kitchen shelf, Mama stirs soup, humming to herself. Two kids lean close by the window light, Passing back plums and daring bites. No sirens now, no cough, no chase, Just quiet laughs in a safer place.
