At the mall, there's a man
who wears his smoke stocking cap on his head and his years on his shoulders,
with fragile frowns creasing his skin.
He stands at the escalator,
dark hand gripping the rail,
frowns and years cutting deeper,
Can't step on.

At the mall, there's a woman
who sits in the food court eating nothing,
drinking the energy of a thousand youths,
smiling and nodding at every young face,
like,
Yes, I know you. And you. And you.
with such honest familiarity that they turn,
like,
Do I know her? Do you know her?

At the mall, there's a boy –
yes, not quite a man –
who plays piano for the munchers and lunchers
who never quite hear what he slips into the notes
while they guzzle their soda and bubble along
He plays piano and I hear his song
He plays piano and I hear his life
He plays boston and I see his soul.

At the mall, there's a girl
dressed in a woman's fears
a woman's problems
a god's strength and
a child's laugh
And she sits in the back of the movie theater
and laughs all day long
until she'll don her chains again.