Heist Poem by Felix Bongjoh

The heist
Under the flare-ridden sky,
Morsels of dark clouds and smoke
Consumed by a fanning wind
Of relief
With no muscle
On a calm face, calm's ribs
Sticking out
In the ensuing storm,
From which voices fired bullets
In rounds of instinctive pauses,
During which they only looked
At each other
And smiled cynically.

They'd just sneaked out
From a fire,
The sweltering heat of the plot,
Carrying with them gold
In tons as heavy
As how they would share it
Among themselves, all groaning lions
With open paws.

They narrowly missed
The more intense fire of the police,
The heavy gunfire
From their own conscience
Sown by the seeds
Of a certain reluctance
To complete
The heist already at fruition's gate
Knocking hard.

But instead of stepping
Into a garden where they would harvest
The fruits of their daredevil act
With no more storm,
Disagreement
Among themselves pushed them
Into a wild river
Flowing towards a precipice
At which most drowned,
Leaving only a few unexpected goats
Very skillful
At descending sharp slopes
To decamp with the prize.