I snatch a twenty from my grandma’s purse,
intent to roam the town for half the night.
She’ll never know it’s missing, never guess

I’m slipping through the side yards in the dark
and leaping over shattered lawn chairs stacked
among the weeds that peek through rusted cars.

I pass apartments where the lonely pay
with more than just their cash to feel loved.
Beyond the cracked, forgotten cobbled stairs,
I find a shrine: the night of someone’s life—

crushed cans, stubbed smokes, some wrappers, an old skirt.
Their secrets held in cardboard and in dirt.
A Penguins cup with Jagr on the side.
And far too young to let these relics lie.