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.