On a solitary Tuesday afternoon at the strike of two, I wandered up Vermont Avenue.
I approached the behemoth, my saviour, my protector – that giant largesse:
the venerable and holy DHS. (Department of Homeland Security)
Greeted at the door was I by men of weight approaching a deuce or more, I stared and uttered my business while frisked to the core.
‘Come in’, said a leafy lady of light-hearted demeanour; while I shrugged my coat and ignored her concealor.
Into the chamber with the boss, no turning back, there could be no loss.
I summoned my courage, plucked some intellect, and attempted to forget the regret at the previous evening’s boozy forage.
The questions came drumming, uneven yet steady, and grew in consequence till I knew what next was coming.
‘You seem so European’, came the inevitable chorus, yet deep down it was growing, not seen yet porous.
What they wanted to know, with a grimace in their eye, was the root which could grow – the potential lie.
‘Your name’, said one, ‘Oh yes, that’ said another.
Kalim: A Scream in my brain, a terrified squeal – trapped, but for my very zeal.
Moments later, as I made my leave, I met my competitor, and all was revealed.
Andrew Jackson – so quaint and unassuming in Brooks Brother’s galore: I in meta-physical tatters, though costing four-score more.
We met with a stare, and I pondered his glare. The match felt like gout, rigged like a Don King bout. There was no chance, not even a fleeting prance.
For how I could I compare, with name donned like a Morrocan Fez, when he came out looking like a reincarnated Prez?
As I descended into the frosty light, I had given myself a mighty fright: what if they should investigate? Retaliate or even litigate?
Alas, not long a repose.
Within hours the mighty bosses, those silly tossers, had came about their conclusion with reasoning, intuition and the infusion of federal parlance.
It took mere days for that postal ambassador of one’s future way’s to drop this particular unamusing end to my bonne-chance.
by : Alexander W. Kalim