This Secret Agent 4.28.2009 Poem by Margaret Alice

Good grief, been at the office for two and a
half hours already, all I can think of is sleep
and rest and running away, carefully constructed
a list of work on hand and hammered my footrest
together again; we’ve been instructed to furnish
the asset numbers of our foot rests - only good as
weapons – to Mr Rikhotso and our hat stands -
resembling street signs - I hung my pink top on
it to differentiate it from the street signs outside -
to a Mr Lyborn; all these maneuvers have used
up all my available energy, this secret agent now
wishes to attack someone with the footrest
and use the hat stand to gouge out eyes…