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.
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.