Spies

Two spies on a park bench, 
	or maybe only
one of them is, 
	and one isn’t.

The first suggests, 
	the second refuses
eye contact. He smiles, 
	scratches a cheek.
One of them risks 
	a routine remark
the war the weather, 
	women, whatever.

The other answers, 
	in ambiguities.
The second produces
	a pack of Lucky Strikes.
The other shakes 
	a shaven head no,
rises to go,
goes, no goodbye.


All night
	under the swaying lightbulb
his pen point ciphers
	the day's intel.

By sunrise an envelope 
	slides through a slot:
poste-restante,
	Paris 16ėme.

Oh you my opposite,
	you myself,
why won't you know me,
	how could you leave me
my cover all blown
	no passkey, no home.