the stockbroker

you blow on
your fingers as
you crouch
in the dark
tomb
of a bank vault.
a flashlight
is on the dial.
slowly you turn
the numbers
listening
to the click
click click,
then back again,
then forward
until it opens.
you pack your
satchel with
stacks of fresh
crisp bills.
all neatly
counted for you.
other people's
money.
it's a good life,
until you're
caught.