Ragtimers

McAvoy sighed and shook his head
-that ain’t easy with a chestfulla lead.
Gilda laughed – a champagne sound –
the disowned roscoe smoked on the ground.

Jellicoe sat in a captain’s chair,
face gone white to the roots of his hair;
sirens wailed in the streets outside,
rumours spreading on the lower east side.

The office smelled rank with cordite and smoke,
and putting on a topper and an opera cloak
Sam Moskovitz skedaddled down the fire escape,
while Gilda hid the booze behind a bloodstained drape

The clock ticked slower and McAvoy too,
seemingly transfixed by the blood on his shoe.
the bulls barged in and trampled crystal glasses
and Jellicoe nodded once – slower than molasses.