The insecurity guard polishes his badge. He notes the slice
of cheese he eats has less holes
than his security does. From wherever he patrols, he receives
scathing letters, sometimes from children. “Dear Jerkoff,” one begins.
The only one who ever believed in the insecurity guard
was his mother, but what was her maiden name?—
each password more guessable than the one before, yet he keeps
forgetting. “I should have…” loops through his thoughts.
When he has to piss, he can still make the joke,
“Look! A security leak!” but he knows he’s running out of time.
His exits aren’t as quick as they used to be.
Dreams misfire in his head. There’s someone he’s looking for.
