The spy, the ghost, the secret agent is the perfect hero for me and you. He is stoic. He observes. He is on top of things. He has a plan. He is a popsicle. He handles his problems with a quiet deliberate grace like water flowing dark onto dry dirt. The spy dresses well. He is perfect, he is important, he does not exist. Quiet piano music. Heavy swelling strings. The spy is free but sad. The spy knows loss. He cannot share.

The spy can kill. He is a lover. Nothing surprises the spy. Skin beetles. The desert. A hard dry tree. The spy can be anybody, go anywhere. His world is not like ours. He surfs through us quickly, like a paper plane, careful not to disturb the order, landing lightly just out of sight. There are so many. There are so many spies. Empty American towns. A rusty red pickup on cinder blocks and weeds. There may as well be none.