“Russian Spy Lady”

She checked out, clairvoyantly, books about cooking and Russian history,

sixteen dollars in overdue fines, and left as quick

as the bells on the front door handle ceased chiming.

Without and accent, Rosalind Russell grin; given four weeks,

her heels will clap with the library carpet again,

And we will earn more than a dissolved hello from evasive eyes

at her next visit.

No speculation, just a tossing of replies and an escape like Tippi Hedren’s in “Marnie.”

I have already forgotten her name, or even the fog of one stated,

the moment her tires peeled themselves off the parking lot.

Once a week, the library assistant and I remind ourselves of the

ominous air that lady who spied our shelves puzzled our minds with,

always glancing at the hallway entrance now,

hoping she will slyly wander in.

Is it that she would reappear to us, or simply disappear

from elsewhere, fleeing here in disguised posture?

I’ve heard the most suspicious people frequent one particular place–

and yet doesn’t everybody?

I shrug it off, lean back, check out my own books,

and laugh at the possibilities.