HUDSON DINES ALONE

A luncheon alone. A secret code

of crossed forks and knives, napkins

folded half lengthwise and doubled

back on themselves. Somewhere,

among the waiting staff, a spy

with a plastic gun, bullets hidden

in the cistern. Death on every plate.

The punters suckling meat from bone,

oblivious. I am far from home. Snow

smokes up the windows in mid-June,

out of kilter from the sun.

I wear dark clothes, dine alone

incognito. I am Smith, Jakobsen,

Chavez, Jones. My overcoat steams

on the hooks of various fish joints.

A false identity, bait. Somwhere,

among the waiting staff, a spy,

the prey assigned to catch me

catching them. In the end a menu

whispers clues; Ungai, Saba, Tobiko,

a shiver of gold on green tea,

crossed forks, an unpaid bill.

HUDSON GOES DARK

They gave me my orders over coffee or spritzers
in a cafe or nightclub in Skopje or Sitges.


I took off my shoes at the border of Mexico or Laos,
thought the Feds or the KGB had bugged my penis or mouth,


threw my credit cards or passports in the Po or the Nile,
hid my name or my age under floorboards or tiles


in a Motel or caravan in Skegness or Cape Town,
dyed my hair or my skin scarlet or fox brown.


I was Jones. I was Stetson. I wore pistols or poesies,
meeting women or misters in dark raincoats or false noses.


I shrugged off my past like an accusation or shawl
and I faked every email or meant every call


to the bureau or cops or my wife or my rents,
and I fooled them or proved them as straight or bent.