my russian spy

my friend Natasha
admits that she is a spy.
she doesn't care
that I know what she's up to.
she listens to
every word I say,
reads my emails and text
messages
when I set my phone down.
you are of little interest
to us,
she tells me, sipping
her vodka, while
brushing out her
bearskin coat.
she works the nightshift
as a maid
at the Dixie hotel on
route one, but
drives a black Mercedes.
her cleavage is tremendous.
you are very low on our
list, on the food chain
of surveillance.
I wish you had a better
job with higher clearance,
but no. you paint houses.
so it goes.
I am assigned to you.
every person has a Russian
spy attached to them.
we must learn and know
everything about you
to defeat your capitalistic
ways. throw a wrench
into your elections.
we want you to be cold,
and hungry, unhappy
like we are
in the mother country.
bitter about our lives.
your endless cable channels
and Netflix
is indulgent and bad
for you. coca cola
and burgers. you are all
fools drowning in sugar
and salt, oprah and tmz.
we will bury you.
pour me another vodka,
comrade. maybe later, you
can come with me
and we can go look in windows.