There have been reports of multiple paper pocket poet peoples popping up all over the place.
All over the workplace to be exact. For up-to-date information, we turn the newscast over to our country bumpkin affiliate’s self-proclaimed rough ‘n tough ruralite reporter. Forget Johnnyon Thespot, your news this morning will be brought to you by Rufus Renegade. He says he’s not afraid of dirt roads, grungy boy toes, or wild women swigging down the whiskey – or coffee – as it was at Simply Darlene’s early this morning.
Rufus Renegade: Help! Someone call off these dogs! Anybody home in there?
Simply Darlene: Good morning, stranger. State your business or go away. I got me work to do today.
(dogs bark wild and froth at the mouth with glee as they discuss their brunch time opportunity)
I wonder what he tastes like?
I bet he’s sour. He looks sour.
He smells like aftershave.
No, something purtier.
Oh, I like pudding, especially chocolate.
Not, pudding, you dork. Puurrrrrrty. I think it’s bacon.
Numnumnum. Let’s eat him now.
(woman calls both big dogs her side, she leans against house door while slick man leans against fence gate – both dogs growl)
Rufus Renegade: Rumor has it that you’ve got yourself one of those paper pocket poet peoples.
Simply Darlene: Yessiree, I reckon I do. What’s it to you?
Rufus Renegade: Ma’am, do you always talk in rhyme?
(something wriggles and giggles in her overall bib pocket)
Simply Darlene: I have no idea what you mean. Would you like a jellybean? Maybe one that is green? Or blue or red or pink? What do you think?
(more giggles from her pocket)
Rufus Renegade: Hey! You’ve got one of them in there, don’t ya? One of the paper pocket poet peoples.
Simply Darlene: Why do you wanna know? Are you some kinda poetical pro?
Rufus Renegade: Who is it? Come on, give it up, lady.
(dogs bark wild, their tails alternate between wags and points, teeth are bared, froth and foam fling from gaping mouths)
Stranger danger! Stranger danger!
High alert! The man reached through the fence toward our momma.
Simply Darlene: Step back, sir, before I riddle your little rig with buckshot.
Rufus Renegade: Whoa, easy there little missy, don’t get your knickers in a knot.
(in all the confusion, the paper pocket poet people who’d been hiding in Simply Darlene’s overalls, crawled out, snuck over to Rufus Renegade’s red station wagon)
Simply Darlene: Yessiree. I have myself a paper pocket poet people. And I’m not alone! There are others. Lots and lots of others too. Why don’t you go harass one of them at their workplace. Their home?
Rufus Renegade: But you’re on my beat, little momma.
Simply Darlene: And you’re on my last nerve, you little reporter turd. It’s not a secret mission. It’s not even a surprise party. It’s a well known event. It’s a Tweetspeak Poetry celebration taking place all across the nation. Open your eyes. Go check out their website.
Rufus Renegade: Okay, okay. I crossed the line. Forgive me. Just give me a look before I leave.
(Simply Darlene’s pocket rustles with a bustle as a timid poet wriggles out)
Poet: Listen here mister mouthy and listen good because this is more than you deserve:
The hills untied their bonnets,
The bobolinks begun.
Then I said softly to myself,
“That must have been the sun!”
But how he set, I know not.
There seemed a purple stile.
Which little yellow boys and girls
Were climbing all the while
Till when they reached the other side,
A dominie in gray
Put gently up the evening bars,
And led the flock away.
Now get on with your rude Rufus self. We’ve got work to do and we don’t need the likes of you lurking about. Get. Get. Get on out.
Rufus Renegade: Good grief, what’s that smell?
(poet dips down again and Simply Darlene’s bib pocket wiggles with teeny little giggles)
Simply Darlene: We got ourselves a skunk problem. I suggest you get while the getting’s good – before you get sprayed and stink up the whole blasted neighborhood.
(security dog force barks him into his car and run along the fence line as the bacon-esque reporter man drives away)
Simply Darlene: Now, miss Emily, whatever did the likes of your sweet self do to that rude man’s rig?
Emily: I merely opened the back door, for he was such an obnoxious, leering bore. And I tossed in some sticky toast. Rumor has it that skunks ’round here like raspberry jam the most. The very, very most.
Well, there you have it. Our man on the street reporter, Rufus Renegade, strikes out again.
(later that day, a man was spotted at the carwash, crying and begging for someone to suds him up and spray him down)