Sandi Leibowitz

You dream you’re chasing spies.
Gunshots.
Russia.
Diamonds.
As if you’re Bond, James Bond,
you risk your life to block
some evil plot.

I dream we’re on the lam,
take off on motorcycles
after the big heist.
When we stop for a quick bite,
I sidle up to you,
trace a suggestive finger down the
winding highway of
my braless sweater,
not caring who watches.
You worry diners will remember us
and tip off the cops.

We wake up in the same bed,
roll toward each other
from the opposite sides
of the law.