I am pissed off

Everyone wants me to be nice.

Well, let me tell you

it gets harder every day

and I'm tired

of gearing up for

yet another battle

of the good

over the implacable wills

of nature and nurture's

altered realities.

Except for my special training

as woman,

I would have said

"no more missis nice girl"

a long time ago.

But my course in

re-alignment of values,

concerns, and necessary evils,

had to be interrupted

to be good for everyone else,

available for overtime

in the garden of innocence,

to teach courses in

self-sacrifice or pottery,

moulding all those shapeless bits

floating among flowers

and carrots

into something recognizable,

acceptable to the world on

the other side of the garden fence.

No one bothered to tell me

that life on the other side

was inhabited

by an underground army

whose secret code

was a mark on the forehead

invisible to the naked eye.

But then, that's the job

of double agents

to be invisible.