The Old Spy Wears His Dead Father’s Suits Now

Crime Poetry by Jonah Finn

The Old Spy Wears His Dead Father’s Suits Now

The old spy wears his dead father’s suits now,
a ghost of dusty clothes in the wardrobe,
the simple business and the easy life
he could have inherited, but for the war.

The old spy sleeps in the closet sometimes,
the carpet still new and never having held
anything heavier than his shoes –
and now the burden of his spying brain,
so certain the bed is rigged to explode.

The old spy once owned six thousand maps
of some country they never invaded
after all, maps that still shake his heart’s blood.

The old spy will never accept liquor
as a gift, because of the KGB.

The old spy, he lies for no reason now.
The old spy, he lies because lies can be told.

The old spy owns these autopsy photos,
naked men and women dead suspiciously,
political murders…

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