Who steals isn’t always looking to fill
a need, I’ve learned. Compulsion, the thrill
of not getting caught, the danger that licks
at the base of the skull, the dare that ticks
its timer until the wick burns out—
Who’d take the trouble to steal the grout
but not the tile, the rubber sheath
but not the copper wire? The myths
of beauty are nothing without power:
despair is their favorite flower.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.