A tall and quiet fellow
of the build to play cello,
with dark hair thinly coating
from heavy knuckle to elbow,
Eased into a booth
his limbs broken of youth,
and beneath the Maitre d's doting
affected the air of a sleuth.
He had a serious face
where neither pride nor disgrace
were absent nor gloating
when he saw the briefcase.
It had been left on the floor
by a wine drenched whore,
the noise of fading footsteps floating
crossed the line between civilisation and war.
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