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T. R. HUMMER | For Dancers Only
Twenty-Four Robbers
Dispossessed is one way to put it. They broke in
and took everything.
The story arrives like music from a Victrola smothered
With a fat silk pillow: muted. Somebody somewhere saw it.
Somebody else knew the driver. There were hacksaws and lockpicks,
Rumors of a pistol-whipping. Suddenly there was silver
On the pawnshop counter, bracelets and wedding rings.
Redistribution of wealth. Somebody drank a gimlet
At the corner bar and paid with a double sawbuck.
It was Robin Hood in a zoot suit. It was Ali Baba sliced in half.
They were having a party in the Avenues, Mardi Gras in June.
Cabs rolled in from the Boroughs. That's my steak knife.
Where'd you get that garter? Soup kitchens shut down early.
Posters of Marx appeared on the fence of the vacant lot:
To Each According To His Need. In the middle of a chorus
Somebody screaming: Open sesame. Open sesame . . . 
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