He knew this line was written for him, and only him.
“This sort of person either becomes a writer or a career criminal”
He knew he wasn’t what he thought he was, reluctantly climbing
the stairs every morning to his desk, reluctantly lifting pen to paper,
only to scratch a miserable poem into yellow ledger day after day.
He wasn’t a writer! He knew he was meant to be a career criminal
all these years, time lost and not a moment more to be wasted,
he grabbed the plaid suitcase his wife gave him for their 25th,
stuffing a raincoat, boxers, a revolver and an extra condom or two
in as he slipped his feet into his Keds, rushing for the door before
she came home from the dentist to find him gone, off on a new adventure,
a new crime, one no less criminal than wasting your life.
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