In the market of trickery the swarms lie,

like latte drinkers on a Paris street.

One of them might brush beside you, "Pardone moi!"

and reaching into your coat

grab your stash of Traveler's Cheques

and a half-pack of PrimaLux cigarettes.

You have already cocked your eyebrow

in a gesture of comaraderie,

"Hey, it's ok, pal!"

but the picker has moved on

spying a Georgia Debutante

at a few meters distant

clicking away on her Nikon

as thought the Eiffle Tower

will disappear before

she gets to the

end of the roll.

She is laughing

and flipping

a few pounds

of honey hair

sparkly lipgloss

creating a beacon

the thief sidles to

as if by divine invitation.

Her hand is on the camera

but she has left her cell phone

and her Palm Pilot unguarded

in her backpack

and his spider fingers

pluck them from their side pocket

as if brushing dust from a lapel.

She won't know till it's much too late

that these items have vanished

(as has her new-found love of Paris)

crying into an ancient handset

on a phone with a DIAL forheavenssake

to her mother in Van Nuys

that she's been robbed and

wants to come home.

Mother placates as best she can

and promises to meet her at

Atlanta-Hartsford International Airport

in three days time.

They will return to their condo in Buckhead

bushed and pale and needing showers

only to open the door (which wasn't locked)

and realise with heartbreak

that trickery is indeed a market

and a global one,

at that.