THE AGENT

He’d have said that we’re beholden
Not to leave things unexplored,
Said there’s always something lurking
Underhanded, untoward.
I’d ask him if he thought suspicion
Was the only valid inquiry,
Asked if he’d allow for neutral,
Open curiosity.
He’d regard me much the way
A god regards a bug,
Dismiss my question silently
With wave of hand, a little shrug.

That was years ago. We parted
Ways. I didn’t feel much loss.
His way had always seemed a burden.
But then, by chance, I came across
A little piece about his passing
That praised his service to the state.
It said he’d often penetrated
Inside circles pledged to hate,
And that four times he’d been the one
Who thwarted schemes that would’ve cost
Lives of ordinary dozens,
But fifth time it was he who lost.

Now and then I meet somebody
Who reminds me of that friend,
Someone wary, doubting, caustic—
I try to see behind, within:
I wonder, Is this yet another
Misanthropic, bitter soul,
Or that rare lover like my friend
Who goes so we don’t have to go?

Written February 4, 2023
©2023 Lawrence Helms