Do secret agents

Do secret agents
also hate Mondays

Does the alarm
ring off in a beige room
with plastic curtains

Is Monday paper day
In a musty office

Is the coffee
watered down
At the right top corner
where two walls meet
in an ominous shape
is there mold growing
A termite infestation
in the basement

What is the point
of being a spy
if the office is a bunker
And to be off the grid
is the cellared off
hot chain
of a dream

The deep center of the Earth
is not the house of intelligence
but where I imagined
in a lucid night, a way of survival
A hot house chair
for burning nerves
away into obscurity

You might know me like an old flame there
Enough distance between us
that we love that we are the same

When the day together is over
all I know
is that the light always comes on
as soon as I leave
And at night
Sometimes mid day
I dream we are old smoke
Drifting away from the barrels of guns
And that we pass through each other
Constantly changing




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