She had the look

of God’s right hand woman,

the fixer extraordinaire

to whom God, when she was in

the tightest of fixes, called upon

with a certain amount of pleasure

down the end of a tightly wrapped

phone, the old fashioned type

with the plastic curly cord,

still used just in case

she had to resort to throttling

the life out of someone, can hardly do

that with a smart phone after all;

the fixer smiled at me

and I knew I was in trouble

as the blonde hair hid

the assassin’s personal touch

and the comfort of words

as she whispered down my ear,

praise her, for you are one of us.

Ian D. Hall 2016