Orphan Boy in the Arcade

He inserts his last quarter into the Pac-Man Machine,

bouncing on his tip-toes, his sneakers slap his heels

like flip-flops. Duct tape poorly covers holes

in the middle of his sweatshirt, elbow skin flashing

with the movement of his skinny arms

as he moves the joystick, avoiding another Ghost.

Skin black with dirt where his knee shows under

ripped blue jeans.

I never asked his name.

We formed a routine each morning,

he would wait for me as I raised the gate

to the small arcade, lights on,

radio set low as we exchanged money.

He never failed to show with a twenty,

a return of eighty quarters in a large green

bowl, his hands much too small to handle

the change on his own. He would immediately

return to his Pac-Man game and insert

the first quarter, toes his only support

in reaching the joystick and white buttons.

I checked all the consoles in the shop

before dragging a chair over to the boy

who was happy to kneel on the cushion

and rest his feet.

At lunch I would pull out

a turkey and swiss sandwich, Doritos

and a few Oreos. I’d call over the orphan

boy to share my stash before we both

resumed to our posts.

No words exchanged,

silence was all we needed,

a mutual understanding of space

and hunger was the building blocks

to our companionship.

The beeps of the game fill the room,

the boy could lose now or in ten minutes,

either way I need to close shop when he finishes.

A woman of medium stature stumbles

into the arcade, paper sack concealing

bottle cradled to her chest. I open my mouth,

utter an objection of her entrance and the time

but she flicks a dirtied palm in my direction.

She yanks the boy off the blue chair,

his sneakers drag across the dark

galaxy carpeting as his eyes widen.

The orphan didn’t resist, he knew

not to get in the way of a mother

and the child she cradled in her arms.