Terrorism
“Didi, come to my desk right now,”
Sandra shrieked, scurrying into
and out of my cubicle
like a mouse darting into a hole.
I followed her to her computer.
“I just got this e-mail
from somebody I don’t even know.”
On the screen, a scrambled message
like a ransom note, a jumble of letters and punctuation
out of which the random word “Bomb”
stood like a wound in the flesh
of the computer screen’s skin,
swarming with alphanumeric characters.
“Don’t open it!” she warned,
voice shrill with near-panic,
even though I stood three feet back,
my hands jammed into my pockets.
“Why don’t you forward it
to the security desk?” I advised,
even as I recognized the spam
for discount Viagra pills.
Ever since 9/11, years ago,
Sandra’d been suspicious
as a drug-sniffing bloodhound.
Anything threatening made her tail wag
faster than a windshield wiper in a downpour.
Fire drills frightened her;
she closed her eyes in silent prayer.