A kleptomaniac
takes things and won’t give back.
A robber often uses force
and risks a stint in jail, of course.
Pickpockets stick to wallet stealing,
in your pants without you feeling.
Thieves now don’t take property.
They snatch your own identity.
So guard your cash and information.
Criminals do prowl our nation.
She used the office fax machine
to reproduce her parts.
Her arm was just magnificent.
Her leg was off the charts.
She sent a xerox of her foot
to some guy with a fetish.
He telephoned quite quickly
but she acted all coquettish.
She sent an image of her hand
to guys who might buy rings.
She got back several fingers
and assorted other things.
At last she sent, as was her bent,
a copy of her face.
The one reply that made her cry
said she should model mace.
At last there was a sorrow
we could not throw a rope on.
The barn burners
left cuff links in the ash.
The funereal nimbus appeared.
This was the ticket
no one wanted, a nightmare
out of left field.
We were chained by the memory
and imprisoned in silence.
Each time a bird flew
we thought of the enemy.
A moat of tears
and an army of smoke
were no protection
from a vast broken ideal.
Another departed holiday
is all over the cellar floor:
the miniature tree, plastic
holly strands and boxed effigies.
Stockings once hung with care
and the odd ornamental ball,
all dead to the mind
until next December,
now go through their long season
of mildew and moth,
a synthetic nature
caught amongst a dark forest
of old tools and toys,
awaiting its cyclical rebirth.
All file cabinets look the same
to one in the shoveling game.
I was yanked off the main land,
fitted with a tight armband,
ordered to alphabetize
words I didn’t recognize.
If I worked for just an hour,
I could take an ice cold shower.
Then, they said, if I worked two,
they would let me sniff some glue.
Random subjects seemed to reign.
Boss was masked and looked insane.
Papers filled up several rooms.
I was really zonked on fumes.
Next I knew, a fire started.
In the smokescreen, I departed.
Found a boat and rowed to shore.
I don’t wanna file no more.