Conspiracy

We steal each moment in life
from the trickster who killed
his mother.  He strangled her
with the apron strings

he never untied from himself.
Delft crockery in the hutch,
a school picture on the shelf.
We dine at a formica and chrome

table saved from the fire
that claimed his Grandmother's house.
"Why?" I asked him on our behalf.
He simply smiled, flat surety in his eyes.

"Surprises are in store for all of you,"
he said.  He led me out the front
door.  The yard looked forlorn; it lacked
flower, grass, tree.  Nothing

had ever grown there.  As for him,
Fate had been neither cruel nor kind.
He always got away with it,
the man who meddled with our minds.