Small Larceny

The coat was buried in the back of the hall

under the scarves and the smell of the rain.

I reached in the pocket and felt something cold,

a sharp little spark of an old kind of pain.

It’s the spoon with the crest and the silver-plate shine,

the one I slid up my sleeve at the bar.

I remember the heat of the wine in my head

and the feeling of being a beautiful star.

Nobody looked and nobody asked.

The waiter just cleared the rest of the place.

I kept the weight of it hidden and small,

a secret I wore like a mask on my face.