La Femme M

 

4am phone call from M: 
jump a flight to Shanghai. 
There’s a man in the sleekest 
most neon hotel, 
Room 215, or is that 
just an area code 
from the past, 
a city I won’t give up.
Anyway there’s a skyline 
to escape into
after the heated exchange 
but I barely make my jump 
between rooftops, 
lose a new pair of heels,
and the microchip gets crushed 
by a Maserati,
custom-built, lights pulsing.

All my former lovers 
send me messages 
the same night –
they might be rigged 
to blow any minute. 
If I unscramble 
the innuendos in time
I’ll crack the safe combination 
to a federal building,
M didn’t quite say which one, 
but the part 
about the tight dress 
was clear, they’ll see me 
but they’ll never 
see me coming. 

A tense dinner with M, 
the guards are outside,
the rules established: 
spilled blood acceptable,
spilled champagne is not. 
She’s playing sexy scientist 
but is there a camera hidden 
in the bridge of her glasses? 
My surveillance team’s 
planted the device 
on the crystal at the tip 
of my ring finger’s press-on nail.
It’s a real diamond – 
tricks of the light don’t work here – 
only the sharp and rare.