If you learn one thing in life, 
let it be the skill 
of knowing
what to steal. 
For example: bandanas, extra pairs of socks, 
paperclips. 

More advanced: moments,
away, a secret spot out in the open.

Expert: a ceramic beer stein
from a neighborhood porch
for your red-headed roommate,
a tiny disco ball when drunk,
a heart,
a year,
a left eye.

If you are brave enough,
steal another year. Wrap it in
your coat pocket, in old receipts
and cigarette boxes.

Save it for when you think you will die
if you have to live another moment
in your body.
Save it for when you leave
your home
and then your parents leave
each other.
Save it for when your sister
is more heroin than woman,
when she runs away
and gets locked up.
Save it for when your realize
you’ve been fucked up,
and fucked over,
and maybe even,
to use the buzz word,
abused.
Save it
for then.

When you need it,
pull that year
out and demand
love from it.

Don’t stop until you are face down in love,
gathering love in your hands,
pressing love
into your face,
weaving blankets
out of the stuff.

Hold that year hostage
for the whole twelve months.
Demand
an apartment,
a new life,
your old body back.

Demand sex,
and more love,
and cigarettes, tiny glass frogs,
giant feather comforters,
paychecks, coworkers,
a new album
from your favorite band.

Steal these things
because
they have been right
above your head
all this time
and by not reaching,
by being
too afraid,
you have been stealing
from yourself.

You have been
denying yourself
the sweet grasp of these goods
you worked
so hard for
and doubted
so much.