The Thimble Trick

It was in a box of other people's past,

mostly buttons, a broken watch, some glass

marbles, dull from years.

And there it was, ceramic, blue,

chipped a little near the top,

a thing I knew.

Cool against my twelve-year-old palm,

I’d felt that exact smoothness before.

In some antique store's quiet, dusty calm.

Fingers quick, then out the door.

Nobody ever asked. Nobody missed it.

Just a tiny ceramic thing, a slip.

A small weight now in my hand,

a tiny memory, barely planned,

of how easy it was, to simply take,

for heaven's sake.