A while ago I wrote this poem about two spies.
One of them falls for the other.
She wore a knee-high cherry dress
hair up, like in the movies.
long heels, sharp eyes and lips,
that shone like rubies.
and for a moment I confess,
I knew she looked like trouble
and me, right there, I didn’t care
I only was his double.
You’re hard to find, she said to me,
a hand inside her pocket.
She took it out, her little gun
what could I do to stop it?
And then it all came back to me
like flashbacks in a story
all the things we’ve yet to see
and all the people we can be.
Will you remember, Rosalee?
those things that haven’t happened yet
that kiss we’ll share in old Tibet?
all these things I said to her,
yet she did not remember.