Orange for Interpol?
Or merely airport security?
Police:   a smorgasbord of reds.
Mostly the subtle tang of the runway's receding blue
Derrick savored, weepy in the predawn.
He checked his gold watch a final time
as cars in wide arcs converged.   
                                                       Sirs:
my passports are destroyed, and the remotest addresses
of memory purged. I have ever discharged
my duty and my firearm; this peroration will be all.
Thank you, first, for this almost-human quirk,
a tick of convincing fear at being, finally, caught.
I don't wonder that the boys so swarm;
top secret things were diddled and, well, a head of state was shot.
The turnstiles of miraculous escape must jam,
and their well-oiled clips unload without a catch.
But for the lights, Sirs, the lights, the lights--for them I am most grateful.
Blue haughty riddles, blurred by fog and these plausible tears.
Something about erasure, Sirs--no time to plumb.
A faint metal taste of the original lab. My beginning
and end. Hexadecimal death like suburban sprawl.
Terminate uplink. Powering down, Sirs.
Thanks for the gold watch and this glorious fall.