Ushered to his seat by flashlight, late,
Derrick figured no plot. Shootings. Then a car chase led
to sudden intermission, pink & lime.

I wonder if you have even the remotest conception of time!
said a cranky voice, right in his ear.
A fiftyish man, who came around & sat beside.

"It's been a hec-hectic series of misconnected rides"
(stuttered Derrick) "and ultimately afternoon rain
that brought me here. I don't know what you mean."

Please. You're the sleek agent I've waited for all these years.
Relay my mission. Give me the cryptic call.
(Yes: the face was familiar, though mothballed & appalled;

Derrick might have doings, indecipherable, with this man.
He said, ) "I have no information. Plot is a forebrain whore.
Expect the worst, late, is my guess. We're as fucked as double spies."

O Coyness, you're so fresh--and I'm so far--from base.
The old code in my coat is so much tickertape.
I'd rather be shot than cashiered. Please: the word.

The film resuming, Derrick's ministrations in the dark
relieved of duty this relic spy, who sobbed
in his seat one final time as Derrick rose

& climbed the aisle, firm in his mission.