To the thief who picked my pocket in Baden Baden:
A thousand curses be upon you. Prickley
pains in your feet and fingers
that stick together, may you not walk
or eat for a week.

May you hear constant echoes 
of music you hate, late Stravinsky or Mahler
perhaps, portending your demise. 

May bugs fly in your eye
every time you go outside
for the rest of the summer.