I Have An Anonymous Admirer
Three book-mailing envelopes in a canvas bag
lay on the floor of my parked car.
I was watching post-storm breakers
three miles away.
The thief slipped a knife under edging
of the tiny, fixed window in my Toyota.
Didn’t break it, only pried away the molding,
easily slipping an arm in to open the door.
Near Christmas, she (I imagine) assumed
correctly my brown envelopes were presents.
I do live in San Francisco. I know
not to leave valuables in the car.
I was gone for a while.
She had a long time
to rummage, neatly, in the armrest.
And open the envelopes.
I like to think she sat in my red car,
in the shade of Buena Vista Park, reading
my poems. Each mailer contained
the same book.
She took all three.
Heather Saunders Estes 