Light fingered (Once a thief)
She reads the news online,
the latest heists, secrecy
liberated, documents freed
from government vaults, seniors separated
from savings. It sounds so effortless
compared to an inhuman being in black balaclava waving
a gun, running out with millions,
bodies in his wake like jetsam. Actual
theft, so physical,
compared to cyber-stealing, flaming
texts illuminating the wrong face,
blue-bell computer screens
broadcasting glorified gangsters,
barracuda bugs clandestinely recording every show she watches,
every tiptoe through the illicitness
of chatrooms and online porn.
The real future as a crook
is online, look ma, no hands.
Today she catches herself
pouring the extra glass of wine at dinner,
the afternoon's uncounted
cookie and espresso, the coffee cake's last slice, accumulating,
psychic weight made manifest.
Her oesophagus can't contain it all, valving
open, gas reminding her. And she remembers
the bulge of purloined earrings
chiming together, secreted under her narrow teenage waistband,
past the oblivious clerk,
remembers too the stealthy slide of surreptitious fluids
down his thigh onto her palm,
as she rode home late one night
in her best friend's boyfriend's car.