BOOK THIEF

Under his coat, next to his ribs,

the collected works of some classic would fit.

Without a friend or acquaintance,

alone like a bone in a soup plate,

he has his little passion,

all other vices shun him.

“Hey, young man, young man!”

He heard someone once call after him,

and didn’t turn back.

He gave the book to a stranger,

the one who ran breathless

one evening between pedestrians.

To me, to me! God’s messenger.

The poems’ witness.