Hitler’s bunker and fled to Buenos Aires before deciding
he’d be better off in Baton Rouge. And thus it was that
I found myself on Her Majesty’s Secret Service: literature.
I worked alone at first and then in a vast company,
my army like the sleeping knights who lie beneath
a mountain, waiting for the king to wake them
when their country is in danger. And that’s been
my life since. I haven’t been home in years, but friends
tell me the Italian Garden closed and sat idle before
being boarded up, then razed, its spot on Government
Street now taken by a bank. I’m not buying it.
Wasn’t I there just last night? The same waiter was there,
same pretty girl, same Nazi. And my father and brother, too,
trading jokes like a couple of nightclub comics,
my mother laughing and hanging on every word.