Last month you pinched from me a fragile mare,

the one with little icy glass-spun wings.

On Tuesday night, you nabbed a bitten pear.

You left me old and rusty nickel strings

but then you took my acoustic guitar.

Then filching my eighties punk rock CDs,

you used a crowbar breaking into my car.

I puzzled when you took my pink chemise,

but less so when you thieved my walking shoes.

And then you grabbed my yellow stuffed giraffe.

You robbed me my collection of kazoos.

You nicked my mother’s red antique carafe.



I wish your thieving, dear, had not a start,

For next, I fear, you’ll steal my heart.