Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
Security confiscated the bracelet I’d slipped
into my wallet but not the thin black sweater
I wore as I walked out of Macy’s.
The sweater still had its price tag
and was so soft it soothed whoever was whispering
“more, more” in my ears adorned with silver hoops
no one thought to question me about.
Decades later, I still have it—
the urge to steal things I might someday put to use.
Tiny plastic bottles filled with oil and vinegar.
Matches. Mechanical pencils, endlessly refillable,
can never be used up and still I want more.
Down at the local Bartell’s, two years to the day after my father died and they zipped him into a bag and carried him out before dawn,
