Thief

In a bright primrose sitting room
chattering froth - les jeunes -
catching the downward step of the blue clock's clicks
a black tee-shirt bent for danger
toting 14% Kestrel
off-loading life-style abuse
idly inspecting the bookshelves
the only poetry is
"A Choice of Christine Rosetti's Verse"
spine unlined, sunlight-yellowed
pages unbent unweighted by heavy gaze
but for the transaction completed
by coming to rest on that shelf
"What good does it do them?
I ain't no tea-leaf
but right's right, right?"
He'd do it again
and go once more to watch
the goblin's play at goblin fair,
and fail to refuse the goblin fruit.