Member-only story
London Thieves
Free Verse
These three troupers
sidle through the alleys and the roads, soothing bricks
with gloved fingertips
for the twelfth night to follow.
Garbed in sundown smoke, the misshapen cloaks
clamor over the ramparts to cry, “Gather!
My fellows, London thieves
are in need.”
Line your scabbard with wits
and bind the names to your script. For tonight,
we do battle with Falstaff and co.
The boulevardier marvels, there
where the lamplight burns. The insomniacs
huddle when the bridges converge. If slug lines
were fare, they would spend
all their shillings
on twenty-four wistful hours,
for surely wealth given twice
is the greater treasure.
“Forgive me,” said the first of three.
“Upon the lever of my soul,
I let the trap door swing
and there crawled out
the remnants of my better impulse.
An idling hurdy-gurdy man,
with a face tuned like a clock,
bore his teeth and whistled, ‘why,
you motley thing,
you…
