The tired lock gives
like gossamer.

An old incomprehension
grasps him.

It is a fever
turns him on
like sexuality:

the brute air spanning
nights of stealth:

the steel pick's
quiet manoeuvre
into place.

He loves
the delicate return
that leaves
the loud alarms
intact.

The night lights
fester on his face.
You find him
where the cold streets meet

deliriously clutching at
the shiny packet of his sexuality.

It is a time for cryig
but this *******
has a flavour few will try.

Each undressed woman
draws him on:
a simple thief
who will not buy.