The first thing I do is break in.
The smallest sheep of the good shepherd
points to a red building –
this is where the murderers
took off the head.
The second thing I do is lie
about the disparity between friendship and love,
a tour of my own making,
up and down and about town.
When I break in:
the footprints, the marks, the dog,
the neighbour, the dog,
until it stops barking. I shut the window.
Over and over I jam the window shut.
The police alarm:
one high note and one low.
Savage. Savage. The handle
of his umbrella glints
crimson in the deepest recess of the lift.
Sit still. I am a criminal
on day release. My security bracelet
around my ankle.
I lie about love three times in one day.
With no compunction.
As easy and glib as the advertisement
that suggests I turn my movie into a meal.