From the deathbed of the oligarch a trail of polonium
winds across a vast continent to a basement cubicle
in a faceless ministry. My geiger counter going crazy,
I enter a drab grey room furnished with desk and chair,
its sole decoration being a framed photo of the president
wearing a lapel pin picturing a bear as if in hibernation,
except that its left eye stares unblinkingly in my direction.
According to intel Ursus arctos symbolizes the grisly net
of deep sleeper agents funded by our devious adversary.
Through the glass eye of the bear a tiny digital camera
scans the intruder’s retina, then transmits the image to HQ.
Forensics runs a check and somehow comes up with me,
me! a perpetual student of life at galaxy university, tee-hee.
No smile from the tattooed interrogator with the slav accent.
He doubts my story about losing direction in a foreign city.
He studies me lying on the floor trussed up with duct tape.
Pointing to a family photo he asks Who is that old man?
That’s granddad I blurt out. He was a Mason by the way.
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