everyone had an indelible mark

i followed the man in his custom-made jump suit

as he headed to the bank,

expecting to find something valuable

because, he said, 

it's not funny

when they take your money,

leaving you for dead.

his smile was wide

as he lied

about his winnings, 

millions and millions and maybe more

hidden under a clever trap door

somewhere on the ground floor

near a vault locked from prying eyes.

but the bank was closed

with a sign in the window saying "gone fishing"

and all the clues pointed to slippery fingers

but the evidence went missing,

although a couple of dogs died like dogs,

dreaming of meaty bones,

watching smooth criminals tossing the first stones

in the early hours past curfew

while the hungry blackbirds flew

over the historic roof of a neighborhood bordello

owned by a mean-eyed man known as mister good fellow.

and everyone heard his whispers making a threatening noise;

saw his girls playing with their friendly boys;

read the headlines;

paid their parking fines;

beat it out of town before the next big fight,

trying not to be afraid of the approaching night,

as the sounds of gun fire and traffic jams erupted,

finding nothing anywhere that's been left uncorrupted.

and when they gathered in the public park,

everyone had an indelible mark

tattooed on their forearm before slipping off to bed,

sharing the remaining pieces of a single loaf of day-old bread,

turning down the lights,

dreaming of a dream of first principles and last rites.