By Andrew R. Duckworth
They say the gossip and rumor train
Moves at ninety miles a minute.
If that’s the case, those legs
Must have won gold medals
Catching up to the caboose.
And it’s no wonder she chose
To hang around the hair salons,
What was probably her favorite place
To hear who did what,
Or to come up with her own fiction.
But God knows her own house
Was not in order.
She probably sits in the pew
On a Sunday morning
With a grin on her face.
But even the devil smiles sometimes.
I only hope that churchgoers
Do not get so friendly
As to give her a snippet.
She’ll turn it into a novel
And make way back for the hair salon.
I normally do not base characters on people that I know. I have a good reason for doing this. But occasionally, I find value in breaking my own rules. In all honesty, I knew plenty of people like this where I grew up. In a farming community, there’s little means of entertainment. Some create their own, mindless but innocent. Others? Not so much. Others are nefarious. Of course, to limit slander, gossip, and other such depravity to small towns would be a grave error. The same occurs in the city as well.
And while I knew plenty like this, one person in particular comes to mind. She has no name to me, other than the name I would call her to her face should I ever have the misfortune of meeting her again.