Secret Service, A Poem by Chris Russell

I was waiting outside the Fish & Game office for them to come out and get me for my interview when the fire alarm went off and everybody had to leave the building. Last week, I’d been outside the Human Resources office at Target waiting for an interview, when an announcement came over the intercom saying everyone had to leave in an orderly fashion through the closest exit. I was beginning to think that there was someone sabotaging my chances at changing careers. I even thought that God might be telling me something. When I got outside the Fish and Game, I saw a man hiding in some bushes across the street. I ran over. “Did you pull that fire alarm?” I said. He pointed at me and snickered. “I’ll take that as a yes,” I said. “You’ll take nothing of the sort,” he said. “I’ll take what I want, thank you very much,” I said. “Not if I stop you,” he said. I gave him the ornithological version of my right hand, and jogged back across the street, fixing my tie. I walked over to a man standing on the curb. “They letting us back in yet?” I said. “That depends. Are you going to be going back in?” He said. “I have an interview I’m now late for,” I said. “Probably not, then,” he said. “I’m not good enough for them?” I said. “You’re a threat to National Security,” he said. “I know you guys protect the president, but you’re a major threat now.” “I’m not in the secret service. And why would I be a threat now?” I said. “You’re well trained,” he said. I pulled out my license. “Here, this is me,” I said. He gave me the finger. “And this is me,” he said.

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