Thief

I’m watching the grainy thief on the surveillance camera steal my bike.

It’s 4:14pm, yesterday, and the pinhole lens extends his arms into nets,

his head a tiny balloon stuck to his shoulders.  It’s simultaneously gripping

and incredibly dull.  I keep wanting to fast forward to the part where

he swings a leg over the bar and zooms off-screen.  Instead, I’m mesmerized

by his slow movements, bending to cut the lock, carefully wrapping it

in his backpack for what?  A gift for his girl?  It’s yesterday on-screen,

but I keep peeking out the window to see him, his white hat and big

sneakers.  I want to shout, you are doing this to me!  I want to be on his

home television doing something similarly mundane—checking his mail,

kissing his girl.  You are doing this to me.  In the past, in the moment,

in the tiny window of screen in the security command center.  I rewind

to the approach, watch you consider and move forward toward the bike.

You won’t look me in the eye.  I stop the tape.  You drive away.