by Nick Gisburne
A sea of lights, too many for the mind,
But which of them conceals the child she seeks?
Without her tech, she falters, running blind,
A stranger in the Black Bazaar’s boutiques.
A silhouette, a drone, a could-be clue.
She follows, sees it settle on a roof.
A salon, for the wealthy, well-to-do.
But why so much protection, bulletproof?
Avoiding fuss or force, she tries the door.
A customer, she simply walks inside.
She leaves a dozen, dying, on the floor,
And looks behind a curtain, pulled aside.
A suitcase. Cash, the ransom, nothing spent.
She frees the kid, and takes her ten per cent.
