A Day in Peter’s Pocket

Hand in pocket

Ever since I met Peter, I have been convinced that he is a demon straight from hell.

Why, before he’d even say hello he’d be turning me over and around as though I were a gold piece! And as if that wasn’t tortuous enough, he found it perfectly polite to push me right into his pocket.

And what a pocket it was!

Remnants of some oatmeal-flavoured rock with bits of a gooey, dark substance stuck to their surfaces made for an interesting snack … that is, until I caught sight of my long-lost cousin lying cold and dead as a nit–caught in some loose threads along the seams.

“So that’s where he died!” I cried as I frantically began to search for an exit. To meet the fate of my fellow multiped was a thought I could not stomach–and neither was the taste of that rock of human origin. I scurried up the side of the rough thread patchwork and tried to get over the edging.

But, alas!  Peter, in a highly considerate mood, sat sweetly down and nestled me tightly between his thigh and the denim edge. Oh, what fright! I had visions of dying an ignominious death as I gasped for air. Finally, the sorry imp stood up and I dropped to the bottom of the steaming abyss. I winced as a bramble poked my belly and vowed that, should I have to the greatest fortune not to die,  I would always and forever run for my life at the sight of any human.

A wishful thought, for sure … for at the rate at which Peter walked, it wouldn’t be long before I suffered death by demolition, asphyxiation, or a stroke from all the heat. Another bite of the sweet rock quelled my hunger and lifted my spirits. I was about to climb again when–of all things–Peter not only sat down again, but crossed his ample legs as well!

Oh, what was a bug to do? I had to take a risk. My teeth were sharp, but could they made it through, all the way to his skin? There was only one way to find out. I sunk my head as far as it would go into the fabric, then took the biggest bite of my life.

A sudden jerk …and suddenly I was exposed to the air. Peter’s face was as grotesque as my body, and I hung on for dear life to the seams of the out-turned pocket. It wasn’t long before I–along with the brambles, corpse and sweet flavoured rocks–were sent flying through the air and into the bushes.

Ah, home sweet home.

And so went my day in Peter’s pocket.