Sometimes I steal
from grocery stores.

Nothing serious of course,
sprigs of cilantro,
basil,
snap garlic cloves,
sleeve a single strip
of green onion,
occasionally, palm a jalapeno

I think it is the tiny thrills
of being a petty villain
that provokes me.

The warm slick sheen
of salty palms,
brow sweat, and
the shivers of pulse
that drums
my heart
when door greeters pull me aside to
verify receipts,
and never notice my aroused pockets
tight and bulging
pickpocket produce.


I'm no outlaw
nor bandit,
I do not pillage or
plunder,
I know the gray lines
that divide
good and bad,
because I'm at one of their
thresholds.

The cashier checks my driver license,
and address before feeding a worthless check
into the scanner
where it gets tagged and stamped

I feel no thrills,
no bad boy euphoria,
I am too numb for elation,
and too numb for shame.

This crime Is justified.

I have three more days
till payday
and hope the check floats

Last week was a short paycheck,
gas prices are high,
rent is past due
cigarettes aren't cheap,
and then there's that drug habit.

I could only write it
for twenty five over.
It's going to be a hard stretch.


I stuff easy cash
into my front pocket
and try to catch the eye of a pretty cashier
an aisle over.
She drags barcodes through laser red eyes
that decodes sale prices


She doesn't notice me,
but she might not be into bad boys

A small girl waits
in a shopping cart
with pigtails
and new teeth,
holding a children cereal that comes with a prize.

Her mother does not see
her kick off her shoe.