1939...Near The Corner of Bleaker Street.

1939--Near The Corner Of Bleaker Street.

©-MFB III

Somewhere a knife lies,
just east of recognition,
serrated and stained
by the blood of a victim
a policeman's fair daughter
who now lies in a morgue,
with her throat cruelly slashed
only hours before.

All the gumshoes are searching
in November's gray drizzles
with a hot rage that sizzles
under their overcoats,
for one glint of reflection
from the gutters or alleys,
hoping streetlamps fogged over,
light a sharp blade that's bleeding
evidence in the rain.

Then suddenly harsh cries,
split their paths of detection,
leather soles slap the pavement,
towards the source of the fray,
two men struggle, quite desperate,
as one slashes, one counters,
while he struggles to reach
for his 38. snub nose,
snuggled tight in his holster
but a gash rips his coat-sleeve,
rending flesh, crippling muscles,
as his killer moves in,
for a more vital spot.

Then a volley of gunshots,
hammer scum to a brick wall,
as the knife they were seeking,
tumbles from his limp hand,
as four dealers of justice,
deal a date with a spade,
that will soon dig a grave,
for one cowardly killer,
as they move in to aid,
one of their own now wounded,
two head straight to the body
of the madman they felled,
to make sure that he's gone,
while the other two tend
to the G-man by tying
a tourniquet over
the wound he incurred.

Hours later the killer,
lay just two drawers away,
from the girl that he butchered,
never knowing that he'd
truly picked the wrong victim,
setting all of truths guardians
loose on his trail.

He had simply stepped out
to dispose of the weapon,
used to snuff out her life
and was caught

near a dumpster
when he lifted its lid,
and it let out a creak 
plus a shadow emerging
from behind him in darkness,
who recognized instantly
why he was there.

The rest is all history,
on black and white pages,
dusty evidence drawers,
hold what he failed to hide,
both the girl and the maggot
are now nothing but bones,
just tragic statistics
from an old homicide.