(5:00 AM)
Rhubarb stands
Before the shrine of Irori
She bows, recites vows
She praises his glory
It’s a new day, a Tuesday
A not-much-to-do-day
But any new day can
Bring a new story
(6:30 AM)
She steps outta the bath
Onto her clean-shaven feet
Time to roll up her sleeves
And start walking her beat
Little red haired cop
On the mean Sandpoint streets
Flash a badge, flash a smile
At the people she meets
(9:02 AM)
Two minutes late
For her coffee break
Better drink it up fast
For Irori’s sake
“A doughnut? No, fool!
I weigh twenty-two pounds!
I start eating puff pasty,
I’ll be puffy and round!”
(9:10 AM)
Now the sidewalks are crowded
Like a forest of legs
Who the hell broke his fast
On hardboiled eggs?!
Being two-foot-six
And downwind really sucks
Nothing more overrated
Than the phrase “halfling luck”
(12:45 PM)
Rhubarb wolfs down her lunch
She’d rather per-fect her punch
And her block and her kick
And her acrobatic tricks
Until she’s soaking in sweat
Deep breath, no regret
Until the sheriff says, “My quarters
Gotta give you special orders.”
(1:30 PM)
“Your track record has shown
You do fine working alone
But if acting’s your dream
It’s time I put you on a team
On-stage you work with others
What of your sisters? Your brothers
They wear the badge; they fight for justice
They’re asking you, ‘hey, don’t you trust us?’”
(1:31 PM)
“Yyyy…es?”
Offer accepted without drama
Rhubarb runs home to her mama
“All my hard work has paid off
They don’t laugh now, they don’t scoff”
And her mama, she’s so glad
Her girl’s a cop just like her dad
Today ain’t no slow-news day
Sandpoint’s got another Tuesday!
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Cyrdak Drokkus’ personal secretary looks at the script. Then the tiny redhead. Then the script.
“Is that all?” she asks.
Rhubarb smiles at what’s-her-face. “Heh. Not exactly. Background vocals would keep the beat. Not such a slow news day, a win-some-you-lose day, a drown-yourself-in-booze day, or five-alarm-snooze day…” She snorts, “Whatever that is, right?”
The secretary is unamused. Stone cold unamused. “What that is… is slam poetry. You’re what, nineteen? You’re too young to tell your life story in slam poetry. Life stories are for dead historical figures.”
Rhubarb’s face turns a shade of rhubarb red. “Well, someday, I’ll be a dead historical figure. I just gotta get famous first.” Turning her frown upside down, she adds, “So, if you could kindly book an appointment with Mr. Drokkus… heh heh?”
The secretary peers over her glasses. “Do I need to call the police?”
“I am the police. I’ll escort myself out.”
True to her word, Officer Tuesday steps out of Cydrak Drokkus’ office. She heads back onto her beat, whistling, Bad boys, bad boys, whatchya gonna do…
