Robbery

Though he can put on charm
this one is devious
only too apt to thieve
what is most valued.
He'll rob the athlete
of his limbs or lungs.
He will plant ulcers
in the guts of gourmets:
cancer in the breasts of beauties:
silence the politician
with a bloodclot.
Milton he blinded:
Matisse's hands
he crippled with arthritis
You think yourself immune —
beyond the allotted span.
Why then, he'll steal your lover
sister, friend.
If then his deadlier brother
steps from the bushes
he can be almost welcome.
From him at least
you know what to expect.


© The Estate of Dorothy Cowlin 1998–2021. All rights reserved.

This poem is known to have appeared in the following publication:

Home Page