My neighbor was a businessman,
a foreigner, a man with gold watches,
and an underground dealer.

Ladies dressed in fur coats wait in
thier beemers all along the street.
Subtle exchanges at night, their
smokey whispers fill the chilled air.

Always working in his heated garage,
always alone in his victorian castle.
Mystery money stuffed in his leather
pockets. Tire tracks etch his snowy
yard with trampled dead grass below.

Parked Mercedes stored tight in zippered
bags along the house. Snow puddles
mixed with rainbow gasoline drips where
cop cars idled and officers questioned him.

“I was just handling business here officer.”
He would say in his broken accent while
fumbling with something in his rough pockets.

Cold stares and unwelcoming looks given to any passing
neighbors. He never did lift his grease specked
gloves or make eye contact with outsiders
beyond his property.

Behind the scenes business protected
by his three door garage. Mechanical
eyes survey every part of the
metal graveyard like a lion hunting its prey.