A Little Crime Wave
A troop of punks on the stoop
cranks up a radio so loud
vinyl siding peels from the house.
I beg and threaten and finally
kick the radio into the street.
The punks rise as one. I slam
the door on their Cyclops sneer
and phone the cops. The address?
I can't recall the street because
I don't live here. I'm the burglar,
you see, and like to work in silence.
With my sack of loot I escape
through the back yard and over
the grape stake fence. The call traced,
the cops arrive in a huff and whack
with nightsticks the vandals ripping
flowerbeds and smashing front windows.
They'll bear blame for the burglary
as well, their feral outlook improved
by their time in Baby Detention.
From the overgrown railroad embankment
behind the house I watch the melee
and counts the grunts as officers
swing their clubs and concuss the kids,
whose obscenities float overhead
like the honk of migrating geese..
Two laptops, hank of jewelry,
a coin collection. Not so bad
a haul. I've parked my car a mile
away. The fading daylight
reminds me winter's closing in,
every snowflake fraught with tremors
insistent as Original Sin.
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