In a sleazy part of Lisbon, near Campo de Cebola,
I saw him, the small time crook; a dealer of drugs.
A bald man in his late forties
who tried to be smart in a shabby suit,
but only succeeded in resembling
the fall guy in a B. movie,
the one who get shot by his own for being a snitch.
I watched him make contact with a couple
which appeared too healthy to be doing drugs,
he wore designer stubble
and shiny black shoes,
she tried to behave like a brazen tart,
skirt too short, frilly knickers and wobbled on high heels.
Both self-conscious, smoked cigarettes without inhaling.
They agreed a price and the loser,
who had had his pride beaten out of him in various police cells,
went into the loo of a seedy café
were he hid his stash,
came out handed the drug over
and was promptly arrested.
He didn’t offer any resistance,
resigned to the sad fact
that you can’t trust punters
now a days.