I had to steal something. That
shoe from under the sofa,
I lay it beside its muddy mate and
walked out the door towards
the trove, the booty,
the nice office, the esteem
of my peers, (as promised),
and I even stole the calm that
comes with not caring.
I had thought I was stealing everything right,
but no, so I stole harder,
folding sheets, cooking coq au vin,
smiling more, asking you questions
about your life. And did you
travel, as you said you might,
to Croatia?I then had to steal
my own drowning itself
through detective programs,
where evil is exposed
then punished, eventually,
after much suffering, pain.
Serial killers! who knew
there were so many? And O,
how every cop’s partner also steals.
A wife, maybe, or his job, or maybe
our diligent officer is demoted,
sent to an awful precinct
as punishment while the carnage
goes on. The nether posting
is theft-proof, the precinct deserved,
the last chance, the burnt out bulb.
He truly did not believe he could
fail and thus I dragged my
bones through larcenies, betrayals,
the cry in the dream, the crazed
cell in my organ, my mind
that can’t steal anymore, not even fog,
let alone a meaning, a comfort,
an address or phone. I wanted
to metamorphose naturally into
a better being by now,
a firefighter, nurse, or a woman
unfailingly kind, someone who does not
beg the gods of junk and jangle
for yet another stealing.