He devoutly watched
from the wooden bleachers
as his son click, click, clicked
his way around the ice
in double blades.
Layers of clothes prevent the boy’s
arms and legs from bending
making him stutter step
more than skate.
The clothes served to soften falls
more than shield the cold.
As the zamboni grazed across the ice
leaving in its wake a steamy wet glaze
he would use a locker key
to pick away the ice
from between the double blades
while the little Eskimo sipped
too hot, hot chocolate.

Now, still watching dutifully
he smiles
as his son walks to him
from across the visiting room
wearing his prison blues.
Holding out a locker key
the watery eyed old man
manages only a one word question