What deep pockets you have, my dear



I had my eye on you from the start.
You, an easy mark,
and me, in granny’s clothing
and hunting with the appetite of
a grizzly from pooh’s wet dreams,
we were destined to be.

I wear empty glasses frames
in the subway waiting room
from Penn Station to the 6 train,
which will take me to the
your neighborhood.

I have no reason to lie-
about wearing glasses at least-
and could afford lenses
if my tailored vest and bowtie
are any indication,

and you have no reason
to doubt whether the spectacles
adorning my eyes are real,
having licked your grandmother’s lenses
for years as a kid,
and why should mine be any different?

I catch your gaze, and act
as shyly as an eighth grade boy
who made eye contact with
his teenage crush.
I turn away,
feigning an amazed interest
in the subway floor
all of a sudden,

staring daggers at the granite pattern
like it’s evidence
in a murder investigation,
hoping you follow my eyes to
the tessellations in the ground.

But while you pay attention to my face
and wonder whether my frames house
imaginary pieces of glass,
like the stained windows
of ramshackle, raided churches,

I sneak my hand humbly
and ever so seductively
into your jacket pocket,
and replace your wallet
with my calling card.

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