You won’t get away with it.
I live in the house
of a dead man.
I wake in his bed,
and eat at his table.
I drive his car
to the job he worked.
I hardly remember
his face now.
But his shadow
lies long over
this house.
For I lie and steal and
cheat to survive.
No one would dare give
the luxury of stability
to something as base as me.
And I feel the earth,
crackling from a deep core,
asserting itself, correcting.
And I know soon that my
theft will be reclaimed.