Our secrets are on sale but just won’t tip the scale however close we hold the cards, however, hearing bells, in post and rope and canvas corners into yellow plastic buckets we spit out however many perfect teeth. The self serve copier is jammed, the workroom door ajar, the self no doubt at home by now and off the clock and on the couch and watching Law and Order reruns and lamenting that on technicalities the perpetrators always walk.