By John Caulkins
North storm blows strong frosty fog,
From typhoon onto Bronx blocks.
Crowds opt off of snowy lots
From posh port to ghost town now.
On boggy docks, crooks do jobs.
Oblong orbs from Morocco
Worthy of crowns or gold cloth.
Cool Johnny plots con slowly.
“Molly, go stroll, look for folks.”
“Otto, prop clock bombs on doors.”
“Bob, loot brown box from bottom.”
Mob nods, cocky. “Ok, Boss.”
Goons got bold, sloppy. Botch job.
Cops show so Molly jogs off.
Stop bomb, no boom. Otto folds.
Bob drops tools from shock, folds too.
Cops told Cool Johnny to hold.
“Stop, Bozo! Down onto floor!”
Sorry, sonny. Won’t comply.
Shots cross. Cool Johnny’s body drops.
John Caulkins resides in Waltham “Watch City” Massachusetts, with his wife, two children, and terrier. He has been previously published poetry in Star*Line and Eye To The Telescope.
Artist: Ronald Williams