When you watch films about the CIA
Or any tradecraft for that matter
You begin to act more precisely
You walk in the half dark
To the kitchen after midnight
The front porch light bright enough
Through the window
To see where you must place
Your empty cup of tea
On the draining board
You sense a little water
Three or four small drops
That could be blood if thicker
On your fingers
And you take the white piece of toweling
Stolen from your gym
But now used to do the dishes
And first dry your hand
Before hanging the square of material
Exactly in half over the silver handle
On the oven door
Which you notice reflects perfectly
Because a Guatemalan woman without papers
Came yesterday with her daughter
To clean the house
In the same way she does
Every other Thursday
She only speaks Spanish
You speak none
An oversight made previously
And one you feel only now
Is a marked weakness
As though of your essential character
You turn past the archway
From the kitchen into the living room
And then into the hallway
From where you see the blue light
Through the doorway of your wife’s office
But feel no need to confirm
That the alarm is on
Because you remember setting it earlier
Hearing the two short tones it makes when armed
And the way the robotic (woman’s) voice said
“Windows and doors: On”
Which somehow compensates for the fact
That at this moment you do not own
A Walther pistol of any caliber
As a result of a general repugnance
To the personal ownership of firearms
Which in this silent and comforting darkness
Feels like the confusingly effete position
Of a man who you suspect
Does not fully think for himself
But still what can be expected
Or ever done about civilians
And all of those who have no idea
What it is to get your hands dirty
In the unspoken name of freedom
And anyway guns while necessary
And at times useful are dangerous objects
To be avoided not because of their kill ratio
Or muzzle velocity but because they make noise
And leave traces which at this point
Would be simply unprofessional
When instead in that drawer
To the left side of the stove
Is a pizza cutter with a circular blade
And a handle that can be held
Like a knuckle-duster
And is as sharp as all hell
Sharp enough with one fluid motion
The unexpected left hand swinging upwards
Through the darkness
To slice any man’s throat open
Without leaving the chance for him
To call his mother’s name even quickly
You know how sharp it is
This stiff inanimate razor
Because just yesterday you cut your finger
Quite deeply while drying it
With a stolen towel similar to the one
That is now folded perfectly
And does not have
The small circle of bright red blood
That the first towel wears in its center
Screwed up somewhere
On the laundry room floor
Which could be used in evidence
For something or other as yet undetermined
And truthfully quite unlikely.
Time for bed.