The Fox and the Secret Police of Alaska

Lotsa freaky women and girls cluck and carp
in falling snows, gad about in sandals showing
off their toes, or take the elevator upward
into Juneau’s downtown library. This one here
wears a foxtail clipped to her belt. When
she walks, ambles or sashays, the foxtail swings.
“Nice tail,” I say, and for the front desk she trots.
“I need you to call the police,” she says. “There’s
a man who’s been chasing me and saying crude
things to me. Please call the police now.”

The library lady, bless her heart, looks around,
sees no hunter, says she can’t call the cops
unless a person is in danger. The fox is upset
and a little bit desperate, her foxy eyes darting,
looking for avenues of escape and safe
spaces should I jump out and reveal my pistol
and take aim at her foxy tail.

Oh, these trials and tribulations oppress her, but
here comes her savior! It’s a man of brawn
musculature and brown skin. He’s come off the
cruise ship docked outside and on his shirt, in big
bold white block letters is: SECRET POLICE.
She trots to him. “Are you the secret police?”
says she, and the man smiles. “Yes I am,”
says he, and winks at his friend.

The fox tells him of the perv, but the joke, sadly,
is over. The Secret Police do not help her. They
leave her, just leave her there, standing all alone,
and so helpless. The frightened fox knows not
what now to do, so trots for the elevator, me
following, her tail swinging furry and soft.


Opham Denyer lives in New Jersey where he loves life and looks forward to the future. He is poor, but who needs money? His favorite things are dumpster diving and speaking in Korean.

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