Stealing the Collection Box
I tore it from its moorings by the door
between the foyer and the last-row pews,
ignoring bleeding thumb and blooming bruise,
all to aid the sick and feed the poor.
I grant the poor stayed poor. I kept some, sure.
Okay, in fact the alms box was a ruse.
A parking meter spilled these coins. Accuse
me, then, of that, of stooping to their lure.
About the bills? To be precise, they’re mine.
All right, there was no meter and no box,
except the postbox I dislodged in rage
from standing in my path. No bully blocks
my way! At most, I think, I owe a fine
for broken bolts. And drinking underage.