Too much to lose, he thinks, for anything else, picking pockets, 
    say, casually, without arousing suspicion out front of downtown’s 
Banks and boutiques where late-afternoon yellows shop-windows, 
    yellows this gabardine’s hushed protest as one more wallet’s lifted, 
Palmed, and repocketed in the darkness of a credit score’s grave. 
    Another round on me echoes as the first handful of earth drops 
Without ceremony on the casket’s lid. Just too much at stake 
    for anything so romantic, so this: the legal, if not entirely ethical 
Raid on their children’s college funds. In truth, he barely skims 
    the top. An adjunct’s wage. Nothing, really. Still, the students, 
Over half of whom this semester are majoring in Business 
    Administration, hardly get what the parents pay for. 
They ought to be learning something useful, how, for instance, 
    to begin without the slightest pang of guilt yet another memo 
Which though one could never know it by reading the thing 
    will mean the disappearance of another thousand jobs, workers 
Waking to confusion one morning as the sun reveals nothing 
    where, once, a livelihood had been. Instead, empty parking lots, 
Temporary fencing. How will these kids ever learn the dead 
    and bureaucratic English in which inevitably the worst of news 
Is delivered when he’s leading again what may someday become 
    a discussion on civil disobedience? How can they hope to master 
Those conjugations and suffixes which most effectively liquidate 
    blame, responsibility, when he keeps count of third-world states 
Toppled this week alone in foreign-backed military coups? 
    He should be precise, teach the five-paragraph essay’s perfect 
Compartmentalization, its solid structural apparatus capable 
    of pacifying any guerrilla conscience, any full accounting 
Of an argument’s collateral effects. Twelve-hundred words, please, 
    on a streamlined workforce and profit maximization. Don’t forget 
The bibliography. Too much to lose then for anything much beyond 
    debating whether to add his name to another online petition, 
An act too likely already to get a person placed on a watch list. 
    He couldn’t stand a night in jail even for those things he does 
Believe. So nothing: after-work afternoon buried in Happy Hour’s 
    mass grave, the hinge of his briefcase’s shoulder strap adds 
A cricket’s chirp to his cadence. He walks to the bus, imagines 
    the stand of trees wherein the revolution must be gathering. 
All the way home, he practices. He’s learning Spanish 
    and just drunk enough not to care what the other riders 
Think of this crazy book-bagged and brown-blazered white boy 
    as he mouths the words along with the voice in his headphones. 
No, not white boy. Gringo, he thinks, his lips parting to the useless 
    yellowing expanse of his vocabulary: libre, liberar, libertad.