Devotion
Once, when I was a spy,
I wedged some film beneath a crumbling grave
Somewhere in Maryland.
The stone proclaimed the innocent remains
Of JAMES DUMON, DEVOTED SON.
Two sandhill cranes flapped away like ghosts.
In a week, with pomp and satisfaction,
They arrested some fellow in the Pentagon
For my casual and well-paid crime.
The evidence? He missed work a lot.
He gambled, drank. His mother came from Prague.
I drive past the prison most Sunday afternoons.
An easy official I know showed me his window
And prearranged a simple signal;
I wave a yellow pennant from my car.
He thinks I'm a well-wisher, kindly stranger,
Striving for justice and his quick release.
One day I saw him wave like mad.
© 2004 Paul D. McGlynn
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