Self Reflection with Frosted Face

I am prone to robbery

So one part of this wit likes to think

No I have never participated in the felonious arts

But I am prone to it.

I cannot pass a bank without consideration

Of vaults, and cash drawers, and frightened customers

I think thoughts of a robbing hood

When I pass the cash stores, creators of victims

Fellow thieves who have legally participated in that I fear to try

And when I pass near a Seven-Eleven

Well

I fair itch

So here I sit in this bakery

Eating my baklava while wearing my balaclava

Staring past the facsimile idols of Greek gods

Past beyond the frosty panes to across the street

Planning a perfect crime

And I spring to action

Pulling down my balaclava

Zipping my parka

And taking the last of my baklava

I march with the confidence of the driven

Through the doors...

A cheery greeting in an Abu accent

"Welcome dear sir"

To the counter

"Dear sir, if I may

You have baklava on your balaclava"

Stupefied,

Mortified, I fled

Running into the frigid night

Breath weighing heavily upon my mask

Layers of hoar upon hoar

And stop 
To stare at the shop front reflection of this fool

A frosted flake of a man

Not a robber

A lover

Of backlava