V
___
Night. Blood is the only sound
pumping in my ears.
I jump across the looming skyscrapers
standing side by side,
past the darkened grey streets,
by the lamp posts
flickering dimly and hopelessly
at the cold concrete ground,
to the Wall Street's bank.
It seems deserted, the place asleep and silent.
I watch in the misty air.
Behind the windows silhouettes are moving—
the heaving of safes,
the gestures of warning,
the window shards exploding out as
I crash the stealing party and it pauses.
When I throw a thug the first punch,
the darkness erupts like a volcano,
its puppets come down on me,
their attacks stiff like toy soldiers.
Suddenly I understand desperation.
As I reach for the money,
it melts into a pile
of coppered liquid and gold.
I'm thinking, how boring it is
to live in this city, how sad
it is when they're caught.
They swarm the pool, like moths
drawn to the light.
I walk back into the black night
letting cops take over,
red-blue sirens screaming in
the still, passive air,
the police signifying their gratitude,
pumping, my ear, my mind, my heart
Light with the weight
Of never taking credit.
