I am a thief.
I steal pens and glances
and I’ve waited for guests
to leave so I can stare at their
forgotten book or purse, credit
card or driver’s license. I dream
of taking exhibitions home, an eighteen
by twenty-four foot canvas under my arm
and then strapped to the roof of my car like an old
mattress whose springs rust in the mid-afternoon rain. I
will take home sculptures in pieces, reassembling them like
an English archeologist, crediting myself with their discovery,
and cataloguing each find: Date, artist, culture, period, and the thieves
of the great nations will donate works for membership to my museum and shop in my
Gift Shop!

I will employ
no fat guards, no men
in blue suits, but women in tight
uniforms that keep their necks straight and hug
their wrists and I will give them large, reassembled furniture
at every corner, so that they too will be on display, ready to catch
any frothing-mouthed gift shop clerk who dreams of stealing my canvases.