Spectacle

Among impossible occupations: thievery. Though my coat is large enough to conceal a woman held for ransom; palm could swallow the crown jewels. Eyes, always on me, hold me honest. Even a half-witted witness could pick me out, and from behind. No need to make up the wanted poster. No other man fits this description.

Of course, I don’t need to steal; wouldn’t, even if I could find a shadow large enough to slink into. I have money in my pocket and my only job is to stand up straight. Compared with men who break horses, break land, I’m already a shyster. But I envy the privacy of the burglar, silence of his work. I’d like to know stealth.

Eyes on me the way swarms fix on the rankest man. So thick, there’s no point in swatting. I’ve learned to let them crawl over my face, hold my gaze steady on the horizon, imagine my getaway.

I wake often, certain I see a figure bent over the bed, hear eyelashes brush key hole. Alone only when hunchbacked in the outhouse, I’ve come to relish the cloister of a long, hard shit.