There must be a way
for the flow from early morning dreaming of sex
to a glass of wine at day’s end
To remain undisturbed
by the shattered glass of my car window,
and the invisible finger prints of a thief
on my seats
fumbling to find something to sell.
For crack, maybe,
or something to eat,
or formula for a newborn.
Perhaps it was just an act of impromptu rage,
To remind me that I cannot have what I want,
A moment of tranquility
A brief escape from anger
A bit of poetry.
If I trace the thief’s passage through my window
Will I find them where he dropped them?
Or has he sold them
for spirit candy?
I hope the taste is sweet.