Tales From The River Bank (from 'Ballade Noire')

I stood and watched the dark water
gurgle and slap,
a great black tongue
sucking at the skyline overbite.
The poultice dock
was strapped to the torn bank
drawing every festering
drug addict, hustler and pimp
into a coagulating mass
that somehow stopped the City
from bleeding to death.
‘Scabs’ the cops called them,
made sense.

Every few minutes
the solitary sound of a single shot
reminded the wharf rats
how dangerous it was
to be too low down the food chain.
Across the moonlit slick
penthouse lights flickered
as those lucky enough
to be born with pretty faces
dipped into millionaire pockets
and passed out between the sheets.

That’s how it was on the river,
two kinds of people,
those with everything
and those with nothing.
Everybody else had a rabbit hutch
in the suburbs.
Too afraid to make a break
for the North bank
in case they messed up
and ended up on the South.
Whatever way you looked at it
it took guts to live in the city.

Then there was me,
hovering in the spaces
between the floors.
There was something predictable
about human behavior,
nobody took the stairs
unless there was a fire.
There were plenty of ways
a guy in my line of work
could slip in and out unnoticed.

I checked my watch,
any moment now
it would be over for a pretty face
who tried to make the jump.
The trouble with blackmail
is it’s only ever half a plan.
You make your move
and collect the cash,
but its over quicker than
a fast-food cardiac.
Life is cheap but revenge is expensive
and I got kids to feed.