Full House

 Brian enters the dining room escorted by a 12-year-old
boy. Everyone recognizes Brian. The young child
is severely out of place. 

There are Six of us total, including staff,
and the animated boy's eyes seem intent
to say something to us all. 

He slips his hand from Brian's and rushes
towards me where I'm sitting down,
and as I turn from my plate
the boy arrogantly demands some of my food. 

"You can't do that," one of the other patients
informs him. "Even Richard has certain rights."
"Inalienable," adds another gentleman
to my right. 

The boy is clearly offended by this, but marches
away in an effort of stoic reclamation.
And I return to my food. 

He swiftly switches to the next table, where
Alberto sits by himself. When the boy reaches
a hand towards Alberto's face, Alberto gently
leans from his path, tolerant but disinterested.
The boy says, "Can I help you?" Alberto says No
without hurry. His ancestry dwells half-defeated
in his visage and his posture, like a stone-statue
carved with integrity, but brittle and neglected now
from the years of bad luck decisions.
The boy says let me help you, and Alberto
repeats his former answer. 

It's the cook's turn next, posted in the doorway
between the kitchen and the dining-room, but
he seems to own some authority, as though
the boy knows he isn't here for treatment. 

So the boy turns back to Brian, Brian smugly
observing all of this. And he tells him,
"They aren't worth the effort, let's put this one
down and get our beauty rest." 

The child's hand inserted in his own, Brian
returns to his room, demure and
full
of animosity. 

***