The Old Con

At Black Hand Gorge down a side path
above an old quarry filled with water

we sat on separate benches, two strangers.
It was the only place he would meet:

You don't know me. We were never here.
But I know you, little lamb.

Here it is. They are not your life.
They pay you as long as you are useful.

You don't need their approval.
Be useful enough, but lead a double life.

Be prepared for the sudden reversal.
It's business. There is no loyalty.

He was silent, did not look my way.
The wind blew brown leaves by my feet.

I got up and walked down the path,
a packet on my bench, money well spent.