Black Money

a poem by tobias kerins, UK

Standing by a lamppost in a dim pool of light
Waiting to meet in the death of the night
The cold sets in and you rub your hands
A small price to pay if the business expands

You see a figure walking up the street
Tall and dark and very discrete
Briefcase in one hand and smoking a cigarette
Shadow hits the floor like a perfect silhouette

You pull up your collars and tilt your hat
Shuffle your feet and adjust your cravat
Glance at your watch and stroke your beard
The rendezvous it has appeared

To a back street bar that you both know
Where business and brandy they both do flow
Hands are shaken and opinions shared
Eyes they glance and notes compared

Agreements are made and plans put in place
Never again will you see this face
It’s a game of profit and you don’t do loss
Now is the time to double-cross

You played the game and they played the fool
Someone was greedy but you kept your cool
They may well think they have the upper hand
But keep it simple and it will go as planned

You watch them carefully as they leave the bar
Safe in the knowledge they won’t go far
Three or four steps on the pavement they tread
Like the perfect silhouette he drops stone dead

A fool and his money too soon will part
It’s up to you for them to outsmart
And when you’re done it’s time to leave
Black money’s the currency in which you believe

This time it’s your briefcase that is bulging with cash
Stay patient and calm don’t rush and be rash
Get up from the table and back entrance depart
The next victim is waiting your planning must start

The Truth
The Maltese Falcon Vol III
Walking on Air

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