I Want To Be A Spy

just so I can turn up, soaked to the bone,
seven years from now, half-masked in blood,
and ask, frantically, to use your phone,
pass out before I can reach the receiver,
spend days in a delirious fever,
then tumble from your bed with a thud

You'd rush in - "Thank God - you're awake!"
And "How long've I been out?" I'd murmur,
groggily, marble-headed. "Nearly a week."
I'd start: "I've got to get through to the captain!"
"You're in no condition to go galavanting
off," you'd say, lips bright as the summer.

And I'd try to stand, but not be able
to - you'd move in, with an urgent
gasp, and how your bust would tremble,
v-neck wide as a gape, and we would
fall back onto the bed for good.
Oh God, to be a secret agent.