The big thief of American poetry? 
Dickinson speaking: I never win, she says. Except at night.  
Management would feel mortified showing themselves,  
So exposed they’d feign ignorance, wander aimlessly   
Taking off (in their heads, at least) for better moments   
Until new urgencies emerge.   
  
Man, she is weird. Is there room in the room   
For further origins. Let’s rewrite Biotherm, she says.   
I fear her sarcasm.   
Composition for her is sardonic comfort with a sober edge.   
Management leaked this against her wishes.   
  
A perv is attacking my persona. Except at night.