I Grabbed a Portrait

I grabbed a portrait of happiness today.

I catched it, as it passed by me,

and stole the piece.

You can call me a collector,

of burgled masterpieces,

but not a thief,

for I don’t recall stealing and giving grief.

I borrow pinches of well-kept memories

to hide from the evil that might cover hearts

sooner or later.

To hide from knives

that might pierce such delicate fabric.

Fabric stains if it bleeds.

Thank God our hearts are covered

with nothing that can’t be washed.

But today on the bridge,

I put into my bag,

a little bit more than just a handful.

I get greedy when gloom is not around.

I took for myself the memory of a little boy and a balloon,

whose world was as coloured as the rushed paint

on the synthetic of the little globe.

With eyes as pale as his unwashed clothes,

I saw him travel all around it,

with his laboured fingernails.

His hands, I imagined, must smell like Helium.

I crumpled this masterpiece

into a wrecked page and tossed it around

other collections of mine.

But consciously, into a corner,

so that when someone comes

to borrow the borrowings from me,

I’ll be selfish with happiness

and hide this little one, from them.

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