The Thief (Poem)

I cannot climb a telephone pole

to take thick green glass insulators

be a thief of conversations not my own

purely because the color caught my magpie gaze

she did this far too frequently and so

stern-faced men in dark official suits

knocked on our red door to tell her to stop

she just smiled at them and said of course

I knew she was not sorry because she laughed

and threw one of the domes at the door

when I would visit after I escaped

I would see the gash in the blood-like paint

a mocking reminder of her power to flaunt any rule

he never repaired it, and I wondered

if sometimes she scared him too

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