To a Thief

To a Thief
Michael Collins

You know what you did, you sociopathic jackwagon. And don’t think I don’t know a poem can’t recover what’s been stolen. This is just to say that I’ve learned that thinking of you only makes me another sniveling citizen of your psychotic little kleptocracy. So you made me feel like I had no home. Great, go post it on Crookbook. Today I remembered when I was a child, driving home one night with my mom and grandparents. In northern Michigan we always played a game of who could spot the deer first. If you hit one with your car, you’ll probably die, so it was kind of a wise game
to play. That night, my grandpa yelled, Well, there’s one, Michael, but then on reflection, retracted: Oh, hell, never mind, that’s a house, and we laughed like his body would never be ashes. This is just to say we are still laughing in that remembrance, in that Cadillac I’ll never ride in again, in that memory you will never take away.

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