by Donal Mahoney
The others, of course, are more rabid than I
but less apt to show it.
Whenever I strike, I never romp off.
I stand with the wrist that I've snatched
from the lady locked in my teeth
as I wait with a smile for the wagon.
As one of the few wrist-snatchers
still on the streets of Chicago,
I make all of my rounds in old tennies.
I dive for the purse hand, give it a whack,
and sever the wrist without slobber,
then stand like a Vatican Guard
with her wrist in my teeth until
I am certain I have no pursuers.
In my dreams every night I can see
all of those women whose wrists
I have had in my teeth.
They stand at their bus stops
like Statues of Liberty,
shrieking and waving their stumps like flares
as I wait for their screams
to bring to a frieze
the patrol cars glowing
in the middle of the street.