Theft

A prose poem about changing.

The fire was burning hot,
a wall of foul passion,
a testament of his crime.

The smoke
unfurled into the night sky,
blurring the clear,
knowing starlight
that had illuminated his actions.

He stumbled back,
numbed
by what he was witnessing,
finally aware
of what his
brain had told
his body
to do.

The crackling flames
brought down a beam
of the old building,
so that it was kneeling
before him,
as he felt he had done
so often
before it.

This place
that had taken so much of his life,
this place
that was more human than he
was now,
was finally dying.

In the distance
he saw the flashing lights
and began to hear
the crescendo
of the approaching sirens.

The flames were the signal of his crime,
the sirens were the warning,

but he could not move.
He was frozen
before the conflagration,
transfixed by its power.

By his power.

He took
a small camera
out of his pocket.
He froze the flames
and muted the sirens
with photography.
He had their spirits on film.

He was a thief,
too,
now,
stealing
this crime
forever.

It had consumed everything
of suspicion;
he got in his car
and drove away.