The Fabergé egg you bought at Sotheby's last night drops noiselessly into my sack,
the world's most expensive Kinder Surprise. I am Indiana Jones in the Temple of Doom,
transposing a snowglobe onto its silver satin pillow, nudging the display case closed.
I saw a documentary once about a Japanese garden and learned from the man
whose job it was to crawl on all fours gathering pine needles. I float through the room
with terrycloth and tweezers, erasing my stamp from the furniture and floor.
You and your husband sleep so far apart, the pillows piled between you the way
a TV dinner tray keeps the peas out of the dessert. The open window's curtain waves
goodbye on my behalf, the scene immaculate, your blankets smooth.
The hardest part about being the world's quietest cat burglar is that you're not allowed to boast.
Having programmed the Guinness World Records line into my speed dial, some mornings
I just sit here, my finger resting on the '2', playing chicken.