Fingers

FINGERS

My momentum quicken to a run,
Concealed behind furs from the rays of the sun.
I flicker into life towards a quiet house,
My step almost as quiet as a scampering mouse.
The house seemed dingy drained of life,
A window easy to open with the insertion of a knife.
The living room at least was of adequate size,
Elaborate curtains fastened with ties.
Silver spoons, candlesticks, my face turned to a grin,
Toasting myself I down a glass of fiery gin.
Filling a sack with these peoples abodes,
I slip out quietly onto open roads.
A barn seems an ideal place for my hoard,
My stash hidden away behind a broken board.
Police begin a search but find no trace,
Of the mysterious burglar with no face.
With no witnesses or ant clues,
I drift away with my loot and tools.
Across fields, woods, and muddy roads,
Until once more my sack is filled with peoples abodes.