The Alms Creek robber scampers
off the dead birch touching down in a steel-
work house caught by the shadows of a high
horizon,
leaving only a ribbon of St. Peters Street
bathed in burglar lights, as she shrouds her
wings over her treasured chest.
A museum for the eclectic spread across the
torch cutting table,
untweezing her shiny trove
large to small like matryoshka dolls, each
picked at in approval;
birthday tinsel, eye glass screws, a cracker
jack ring slipped on her beak, as she imagines
princesses would.
Dancing around the cantle of whiskey jugs
celebrating all that is gratuitous and good.
Coke chalked beneath the furnace floor now
fed with wildflowers through its dog muzzle
door, bedding the hatchlings of tomorrow’s
thieves.
Warming soft plumes in a mother’s glow,
delaminates a baron procession of pleasing
portraits, innocent cries
one day will follow her greed, consumed by
such objects succotashed in the bleeds.
a poem, as many of yours are, set amongst the stars...