Here, a fine dining cloth of chequered weave.
With the flourish of a magician’s sleeve,
The glasses remain but the cloth recedes.
And to keep white men choking on smokescreens:
Blackmail, with their own spectres, ghosts, and fiends.
A fluid gambit by the modern thief –
The silk laid out with no stitches or seams.
But schemes snag hitches, fabrics fail to bond,
One moment success, the next it is gone.
Alas, if my world was less black and white,
My flying wheel would not be pierced in flight:
Pleasure, not pain, if plans fell into place!
I stagger round to see my killer’s face,
Bold Domino stands over my disgrace.