He stole the angular tan rock
shaped like a miniature Alamo
from the nearby mountain.
It languishes, this kind
patriarch, with arms
that spread above
the surprising lake
in this parched and thirsty
micro-climate close to
the Mexican border.
Transports it to his suburban home
in the aging green Subaru Forester,
plunks it outside in the dirt
of the narrow rectangular back yard
where it now shares morning’s gold
gleam and glint of sunlight
with the blue, red
and seafoam
fading seahorse painting,
a true fish out of
water,
this his signature work, his pride and joy
pilfered straight from his happiest dream
of a shared picnic table, cerulean skies,
greenest grass and flying ocean creatures
more than twenty years’ ago.
He awakened, wrapped
in pure laughter, the dream
and he thick as blundering
thieves, that fine bright day.
Yes, plunder does have
its own rewards.
