I remember the subtle thieving
of folders every time
I switched off the lights.
When I reported the petty crime
I was vaguely reassured to hear
that lightning never strikes
the same tree twice.
I wondered
if it was an oak
or a young poplar,
and if robbers nest on branches.

Later I discovered that
one lightning was enough
to make charcoal of a tree.
Instead of folders and
Beware-of-Mice wallpaper,
there was only grey space.
The thieves were kind enough
to leave a note signed with
a lighted-bomb Restart.

I knelt for days
over burnt terrain.
It was difficult to begin again
without even cinders
of an address book
or internet passwords
to sift through.
On this dead stump
I drop to my knees as the woman
who watched her house looted
thinking it was someone else's.

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