The Silverado on Blocks

In an upscale neighborhood,
There is a truck what sits on blocks;

Stuck out as a sore thumb.

Hard to miss,
Even in thick morning fog.

Standing sepia in darkness
High on taut tied stacks;
Set out afternoon before,
Recycled paper compact.

An act of sheer convenience leveled,
What leisure for these thieves.
Owner’s shocked face contorted,
When they walk out to see.

Nothing quite changes the feeling of comfort
As a thief’s malignant and distasteful way.

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