We tried a little mild vandalism
like turning the lights off hard,
slamming a sandwich together,
commanding the bus to fuck off
with a slap. It didn’t feel right but
maybe nothing felt right, snow
expected but now nearly stacked
to the higher floors of richer
buildings, where a dim old man
awaited the trickle of soup from
a ladle. It’s impossible to recall
what my boots looked like or
how many times my forgotten
wool scarf needed to be looped,
or even where I held money so
that when a gust blasted off
the lake it didn’t turn into yet
another sky-vaulting pigeon.
We thought about attempting
some embezzlement but that
sounded so intimate nobody
could consider it controversial.
Once I took a half rack of new
clothes onto the bus and kids
thought I was plain sick, then
I had to walk two blocks while
the hangers played their knife
game. But somehow neither of
my hands hurt from that now.