the collection

after years and years of searching
and finding, he was proud of his collection
of coins and stamps. displaying
them in glass cases, taking them out
for visitors to see. everyone
had seen them all many times
and heard each story that
he was quick to tell of how they
were found, and what they meant, but
each time, they feigned surprise
and joy with their appearance.
so when they were stolen by a
burglar who blew into town, then
out after a string of robberies,
the man became glum, despondent
and quiet. his wife tried to console
him with words, with meals
and fresh baked pies that he
adored, but his appetite was gone.
for food, for life, for the day
he lived in. how could someone
do that, he's say, sitting on the front
porch of his house. why would someone
steal my stamps and coins.
I never believed in capital punishment
before, he said, but now I do.
sometimes he waited until deep
into the night, when the stars
sparkled and filled the sky,
thinking maybe he would see the robber
again going down the dark road
with a sack over his shoulder. he'd
question him as to why, why would
you take what was rightfully mine,
then plead for him to bring them back
with no questions asked.
but the man came never came,
and he lived out the rest of his
life in sadness. the stars meant
nothing.