Gangland (Poetry)

He walks these streets and claims them as his turf —
each stinking alleyway and sleazy bar
are part of this harsh world that gave him birth
and taught him to respect the way things are.

He knows the faces — every Jill and Joe
who ply their trade around the neighbourhood —
knows what they’re worth and every cent they owe,
they pay their dues, his sanction understood.

He has his friends, but watches one and all —
sleeps with one eye open in the gloom —
knows what’s written on the subway wall —
a bullet with his name on’s coming soon.

But ‘til it does, he fills his two-tone brogues
and swaggers round — the biggest fish for miles —
and basks in the bad company of rogues
who grind their teeth behind piranha smiles.