"Escapade."
Poet and gangster reach in the dark.
Blind flashes reveal them.
The dead collapse and the living scatter for cover.
Alone now they think the street is theirs,
and swiftly they make their getaway.
In the left hand, the hole.
In the right, jammed in the driver's back,
the weapon as they careen.
And at the hideout, set up to repel the law,
coming nearly as swift sirening.
In the Inferno started by both sides.
Riddled.
Still seeking to shoot.
They sink to their deaths.
The hall beside them still theirs.