there is a woman that sits
all day
in the coffee shop,  
and maybe all night since she is there
every morning.

in rags,
and she stares:
messiahs and creamers.

she speaks in prayerful lumps
and is mended by her daily
bread.crumbs.
they fall with the invisible tears into her skirt.s.

she picks at her plate
long empty,

but she remembers when
it was full.filling.

she leaves during the remembrance
and is still, as she, is. … ..
she cannot remember where she should.

and where is she?

she mumbles i am  
the thief on the cross,
still smoothing the edges of cracks
on the plate. . ..

i am the thief on the cross.

in the coffee shop, we all smile
with her words,
nailed ourselves,
and trying to remember
how much like thieves,
stealing from such beauty,
we can be.. ..

how very much like thieves
we all
are.