≈ 2 min read
At fourteen, I stole a pair of trousers
and some socks. We could not afford them.
I thought if I could reach the street,
I might look like any other boy.
The shopkeeper caught me at the door.
He looked at my shirt, then at my feet.
He said he felt sorry for me.
Then he asked what else I had.
I turned my pockets inside out.
A few coins. He waited.
I searched them again, as though
poverty might have missed something.
He took back the trousers and socks
and kept the coins for his trouble.
Then he chased me down the street,
shouting, “Thief!” so everyone could hear.
Since then, I have never stolen anything.
I still remember his open hand,
waiting for the last coin.