Rp Verlaine writes

The Bandits 

 

Ask me again knowing I will come.

Are wise to give naught in return

taking hours that only

seem free.

They steal the currency

I can never keep.

They take the clothes

I've never worn

and borrow books with their

return much in doubt

and yet I'm glad

to see them

out from my self imposed prison

and near monastic practices

I've talked myself into.

These bandits

I come to them with hands in the air.