Cipriani Wall Street

We march

on command

we pour wine at the signal

give them the rolls

hot

we bring up the bloody appetizers

and wait for them to feed

then it’s clear plates

hurry the bastards up

there’s a deadline to meet

for god's sake.

Sal the coat check mafia Don

floats over

the banquet hall

like Baron Vladimir Harkonnen

smiling with eyes glazed.

he'd suck the blood

straight from a client's neck

for an errant comment.

Sal had lived on the edge.

he wasn't fucking around.

he'd gambled with hitmen

snorting cocaine until dawn.

now he was running the show,

the garments, the hangers

a master of ceremony.

if you were in with Sal

you were in good.

if you weren’t,

you’d go home - bye bye.

he was the sanest man

that worked in that place.