Little Criminals

Little criminals. Walking past my property, they're not fooling anyone. Their mamas, maybe. Their mamas are little criminals themselves. Little harlots. What are they? Sixteen years old, walking past my property with their little criminal children?

I saw one of those little criminals take a bunch of grapes, plain as church on Sunday. He just grabbed 'em right from the bin at Daly's. Picked 'em up and do you think his crazy-eyed mama said anything? Anything like, "What are you doin', stealing?" or "You put those back right this instant or it's to the police station with you"? No, she didn't say anything. She looked at me and smiled! Can you imagine?

And how many times have I seen those little criminals marching across my lawn? Slow marching. Chain-gang marching. Think they own everything they touch. This lawn? Own it. The street? Own it. Grapes at Daly's? Own 'em. Like everything's here just for those little criminals to walk on or pick up and grab or put dirty hands on. I know what they are. I know what they're thinking. I call out to them, strong and clear like daybreak, "You just keep moving. I got my eye on you."

I see it all from my porch. I see it all from my wicker chair. I put a new cushion on it, it's good as new. I can sit up there all day if I need to, watching out for the little criminals. Walking on my property. Putting their greasy hands on cars parked on the street. Raising their voices with no regard for the time of day. Sun can be down and gone, they don't care. Calling out with little criminal voices, talking how "I'm gonna get you" and "Connie say this" and "Connie say that." Connie the biggest little criminal of the bunch. The biggest rottenest apple in the barrel.