There's a thief hiding in my mind,
sneaking around the very edges,
darting into the hippocampus,
and teasing through my memories.
His feet remain bare for stealth;
his catsuit is wrinkled with wear
and must be brain matter gray.
He's not a great thief, though,
because he takes the obvious:
what I had for dinner on Monday
and what happened last night
between turning off the lamp
and jarring awake to the alarm.
Maybe he's still in training,
working to become more stealthy.
Maybe he's grown too cocky
to try to cover his tracks.
Or maybe he is a decent thief.
I don't have an insurance plan
or an itemized list of the precious
things I store in my mind,
so a few must have been lifted,
only to be returned to me
in the quiet times when I stumble
across the thief and his cache.
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