i poured a drink
and told my friend of the old maid
who used to come every other
monday to the
house where i grew up
and how beautiful
she was
and how i would clean my room
the night before she came
just to impress her
and she would come in
all those bright monday mornings
and she would smile
ask to vacuum
in her broken, thickly
accented english
and i would smile back
hoping that despite
her Portugese heritage
her broken english
and her son my age
that there was hope
for me

--he smiled at this
and we laughed
at the amazing
fantasies of
men and boys--

and i told him again
how beautiful she was
though i don't think he really
understood exactly
she came for years
until one bright
monday morning
after she smiled and
asked to vacuum
i returned to
find my wallet
emptied
and my laptop as
missing as she was

--i informed him
it was the first
and only time
a woman
had broken my heart--

for years after that woman
has plagued my thoughts
from time to time
wondering where
she could possibly be
alive or dead
and how many
more poor, starry
eyed nine year olds
she had broken
since me

me and my friend smiled
and poured up another
drink
this one's for you
my beautiful thief