Poetry: Not a Thief

They steal more than our cash who steal our money, dropped bills
slipped in a finder’s pocket, a wallet emptied of its fill;
they steal a kinder world where we look out for each other,
call to know: How did your date, or, surgery go?
Can I help you with that heavy load? A world where we make
room in a long line, clap for another’s show.
 

They steal this kind of world, not just from you and me,
but from themselves, a world where neither we—
nor they—would want to live. And so when the thief
who didn’t mean to steal as much by stealing
just some money from my wallet, left (emptied) at my door,
justified by: She doesn’t need it
half as much as I do, or, this is my just reward for finding it,
a ray of light for the dark nights of my soul,
honey in the rock on my rocky road, leftover manna dropped
by a god I’ve never found much use for—
 

I did not want the world we want to live in
to be stolen, too; to greet each face,
wondering, So was it you? And so, this posting’s
not a plea or offer of reward, but a resolve:
 

whoever kept my cash, accept it as my gift,
spend it in good faith, take a sad friend
to lunch, slip the tired waitress a large tip,
buy Creamies for your kids,
and if some day you lose it, trust that you live
in a world where you will get it back, a world
where dark nights pass; grief learns to live with loss,
where you are not a thief, but lucky, loved.