I only know she exists because
I've seen her up close, spoken to her--
well, was rejected--
when I tried to cash a check there once--
well, withdraw money from my unemployment account.
"Sorry, I'm only here to receive deposits.
I can't give anything out," she said
in her thick Russian accent--
well, Ukrainian or Latvian, or maybe Lithuanian--
right out of a Bond film.
At least I think that's what she said;
I wasn't paying attention--
well, was distracted by her dark hair
pulled back tightly in a perfect bun
and her clear blue eyes piercing my very soul.
I picked my haggard self up by my dusty collar
and escorted myself out of there in a flesh--
well, flash, did I say flesh?--
making sure my tongue was still in my mouth.
Now, many moons later
whenever I pass by that bank's pointless substation
I can't help but notice her there
sitting at that desk
not doing a thing
and getting paid for it
in true American fashion--
the gorgeous remnants of a sad man's attempt
at scoring a mail-order bride, or a refugee turned
entrepreneur, or maybe a foreign exchange student
who never went home when her visa expired.
She's laughing through that wall of glass
knowing that she could have any Yankee fool
wrapped around her little Commie finger.
The irony of the limitations of her job description
eats me up inside as only I'd be eaten.
It's enough to drive a man...no, just
to drive him.
Oh, Natasha: rogue agent.
Relic of the Cold War.
Don't tell us you don't know your own strength.
If I were a lesser man--
well, a desperate man--
I'd try, but I'm not--
well, not anymore.
I'm a betting man, and I know when I'd lose--
well, shucks.
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