The poet looked into his rearview mirror and cursed. A police cruiser, lights flashing in the red and blue of apprehension (for both the officers and the culprit) was bearing down on him like a bat out of a light bulb factory.
He slowed to thirty, put on his signal light to indicate that he was caught and pulled off onto the sandy shoulder of the highway. He couldn’t help noticing their self-satisfied smirks as they came up behind him.
The poet lowered his window as a beefy-looking predator in blue strolled up to him. ”What’s the problem officer?"
”Can I see your license and registration please?"
He fished them out of his wallet and handed them over. ”Have I done something wrong?"
”That baby. You’re not allowed to drive a motor vehicle with a baby in your lap. Children have to be in proper restraint devices.”
He patted his eight-month-old daughter on the head. ”You’re making a mistake, officer. You see, right there on my license, it says I’m a poet.” He pointed to the relevant entry. "See? I also have the required sticker displayed in the back window. Didn’t you notice it?”
The officer walked around to the back of the car to check. Sure enough, it was there but a pillow had partially covered it. That was why he missed it. However, it was there and he apologized for his mistake.
Ever gracious, the poet apologized as well. ”I guess it was just as much my fault. . . . I should make sure my ‘BABY ON BARD’ sticker is plainly visible at all times.”