May 27, 2020

Thieves and Vandals

The mouse who carries your bread off
        one crumb at a time is no less
the thief for parsing out the heist, as
the termites who mill your house into
        sawdust, gnaw by patient gnaw,
are no less the vandals for the duration
        and quiet of their undoing work.

Vigilance and attention are due, but
        distraction is today's disorder,
tomorrow's searing hunger, sad ruin.
We need the tenderness of vision,
        courage not to look away, but
we turn aside instead, engaging only
        the tongue, no other muscle –

certainly not the heart – or we lift fingers
        only to rattle off some forked
bit of snark, eyes zeroed in on this
narrow slate of looking-glass more likely
        to cut to wound than to reflect
back any true thing or shatter the armor
        we hide beneath, suffocating.

We have done this to ourselves, made
        ourselves hungry and homeless
one sad, small bite at a time, taking our
good faith, draught by sweet draught,
        and souring it, poisoning our
water, our air, our very lifeblood with
        petty thievery, hushed vandalism.