theft

four years old:
saw them (the older siblings)
beaten with ruggedness
the way they did on tv
the way the war inflicted
sacred measures of masculinity
into his mind.

seven years old:
shared cigarettes under the slides
the way the elders who led rebellions
against a totalitarian oligarchy of
educators
did every morning at 9:05
and did every trip to the VP’s office.

ten years old:
with a malnourished hunger lingering
borrowed permanently
a sweet sensation of marital bliss
of chocolate, peanut butter and plastic
from a random corner store
where a dilapidated sign about criminals
always being prosecuted
stood out vaguely in his memory by the exit.

thirteen years old:
punished into the night and much too long
into the morning
by a new case of sickness
he had only ever experienced
vicariously
through his intoxicated parental figures.

sixteen years old:
kissed the curb near his old high school
because he knew this was his last
annoying day
in this decrepit institution
he was leaving with a carefree attitude
to the future. what does that word even mean?

eighteen years old:
saw my bike parked somewhat lonely
near the public library
and lifted what remaining courage
lasts in the mind of the downtrodden
and waltzed over in street-educated swagger
and cut the lock, released its oppressive cable
and liberated what I thought was my property.