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The Heist

Poem by Jasper Young

The Heist

Photo: Maxim Hopman / Unsplpash

A get-away car.
Three houses down the street.
Engine still running,
tapping the steering wheel
like a drum, waiting for the all clear -
a door pushed ajar and a text saying:
“You coming in then?”

A street rigged with lasers,
tripwires of judgemental glares and gazes –
neighbourhood guards armed with
whispers and Facebook Messenger.
Keys swinging, mouth whistling,
a skip in my step that can do no wrong,
even though I’m doing nothing wrong,
I still feel like I’m doing something wrong,
but I’m doing nothing wrong -
I’m doing nothing wrong.
In the door – door shut, door closed,
door locked. Eyes lock. Heart-stopped.
Target identified.

A hallway surveyed by eyes
of family members I’ll never get to meet.
Shoes off to not leave a mark –
bundled into my grab-and-go
swag-bag of belongings,
no evidence left behind.
He wears my hand like a glove,
fingerprints dusting together,
Partners in crime.

A bedroom broken into
like cracking into a safe,
breaking into a bank of high-stacked
golden bars and fat-wads of cash,
un-buckling belts of treasure troves
filled with strings of silver pearls
and doubloons to match.
Skin smelted together like gold,
burglars between the sheets, attached.
A car passes by -
Frozen metal.
His eyes soldered to mine –
a look of diamond shattering
like sugar-glass.
Peeking through the curtain,
sunshine like a searchlight in the dark,
he turns back to me,
coast clear, curtain shut -
A look of
I’m sorry, I forgot we were thieves.

A get-away car.
Three houses down the street.
Engine running –
when it’s over, it’s over.
I thought there’d be sirens,
not silence.
I thought I’d be wealthy,
not worthless.
I thought I’d live in a world
where thieves are not thieves,
but get back -
what is stolen from us.

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