Spies Like Us

You and I were super spies, like something out of an

Ian Fleming novel or Matt Kindt’s mind,

under cover of Central Intelligence, sipping martinis

at all the posh safe homes our respective

countries’ cash couldn’t afford. In a double agent’s

disguise, I slipped into your Casino Royale,

you with your second-hand Russian accent,

and although the Cold War had ended long before

you turned coat to love me, a nuclear winter

sparked between your KGB thighs soaking those

silent lies we nightly burned away, come morning we

quickly erased. We held revolvers to our hearts

and washed the dirty linens of our motherlands in

codes kept secret from each other, out of habit

How beguiling you looked with my dagger in your

back and bleeding out onto the faux marble floor

of our honeymoon penthouse at Mandalay Bay.

What will the news sites report, I wonder?

Dynamite in my throat, I fastened a bow tie, holstered

my trusty sidearm Walther, and strode into

Caesar’s for something on the rocks. I thought you called

out to me (in this business you only live twice), but

it was only a .25 auto grazing past my salt and pepper,

fired from a Baby Browning I used to know.

A cold shoulder brush-off later and I’m staring into the

bartender’s thunderballs; I was for your eyes only,

and you weren’t prepared to live and let live tonight…

Stirred, not shaken, I demand, truth serum smug.

Just the way she liked it.

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Every Monday, GJC will be sharing a poem from John T. Trigonis, a local JC Heights resident, poet, writer, and coffee aficionado, in our Monday Musings.

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