Neither Shall You Steal

After shopping at the Big Lots, headed for the car,
she sees the child has something in his fist.
“What’s this?” she asks, leaning in,
his small fingers locked around an artificial
flower. A silk gentian from China, so breathtakingly real
she has to feel it when he holds it up, and she says, “Joey,”
the shadow of a frown descending on a child’s right from wrong.
She knows she taught him better- “It’s for you,” he says,
and lifts the flower to her chin, his imitation of a
grown man’s love. She slaps his wrist. Insists:
Take it back, admit his sin to the woman counting
hours at the check-out. His shoulders sink.
He works his sneaker into gravel
like the broken bits of her commandments.