The sleeper (for dad on Father's Day)

My sleeper - cold war agent of old age - and I,
we're to meet near the border this evening,
away from the savage moths and crickets
I come to listen with ears like razors
since both of us know I owe him my ears

Seven months since I last woke him;
His eyes on the clock as I find his table
Lamps flood the cafe with Australian
Eucalyptus honey, and at once he's
unbottling the tasty, cynical secrets

He's Patrick McGoohan's turtleneck and jacket
with Toshiro Mifune's beard and teeth
and Donald Sutherland's nose
smoking a Dutch cigar
drinking a single malt

The ash trickles like pepper now and then
as he asks me how tidy I'm keeping myself,
goes over the police reports, makes a joke
about money, talks about Van Gogh
and the Plantagenets.

In return, as the smoke licks my eyes,
I tempt him onto the subject of the dark ages
and he reveals, "They're waiting in the wings.
Few of us know the codes of the current age."

There are some things I must admit:
We have differing tastes in books and films
I even believe we live in different countries
I don't go by all his maps of human behaviour
(though Heaven knows, we're very close
when it comes to our predictions for America)

I double-check his intelligence reports,
and some just don't withstand scrutiny.
and every time I send him back for more,
I wonder at his loyalties.

All the same,
sometimes I think I see the smoke of satisfaction
curling on his lap
He's quick to hide it, and grin, showing teeth
in the tiny spines of his pirate beard
True, I'd love to inherit the beard