Have a poet in your pocket - the modern version.

“You will never be alone with a poet in your pocket.” John Adams.

Outside of the store whose clear glass windows were marked only by an ubiquitous frosted-white quill, the crowds lined up. There were two lines, each extending in opposite directions up and down the second floor of the mall. One security guard was stationed at the door, a broad man if not a tall one. Another, a tall woman with a severe ponytail, patrolled up and down the lines in fifteen-minute intervals, which basically amounted to walking around the inside and the outside of the mall. Luckily, the crowds were well-behaved and complacent, some chatting or texting, others reading or simply standing around.
The buzz had traveled from person to person, though the many billboards, a sizable internet presence, and several flash mobs didn’t hurt its progression either. It was the new model coming out, promising new features and upgrades to the already sleek performance. No one knew what it looked like. A few claimed it was going to be like a Kindle with video, while others said it would be an iPhone with more text. Most said with fierce loyalty that, if anything, those other toys were only derived from the light of the Poeta.
Some still twiddled with their older models as they waited. It was flat, nearly paper-thin, and came in models from transparent, through notebook paper, to the premium vellum model. They could type in a word, a phrase, a stanza, and words would pour out, waxing (per the name) poetic on the subject. Some experts initially called it a random word generator, but unlike those clunky artifacts, these made sense from start to finish. And it was not limited to poetry. By adjusting a few simple options, it could turn out prose of any sort or variety, dividable by genres ranging from romance novel to business report. So far the machines hadn’t been able to reproduce an individual author’s voice, but even more marvelously, it was a new voice whose only distinguishing characteristic was a tendency toward propriety. Its rap was renowned for its stilting hilarity, which spawned a new genre of its own. So it was a marvelous product, but its fans wanted to see what would change. And some just wanted to see what the big deal was.
A salesperson pushed a button, the doors opened, and the first fifteen people were let in. Each was met by a crisp, clean-cut man or woman standing next to a clear podium. The boxes were already below and behind each podium, and they gingerly asked questions to ascertain a best fit for their client: “What will you be using this for?” “Do you know any other languages?” “Would you carry yours in a purse or a pocket?” There were no questions about price. The cost was immaterial.
The first to get one was Sandy, 32, a single mother of a seven year old. She had driven from Tallahassee, FL to Miami just to make one of the premium outlets. The child was at home with a babysitter. Sandy wore a lime green t-shirt, tights, and sandals, the combination being quite in vogue and quite unstylish. She smiled with anticipation as she got asked the different questions, answered that she would like to do a trade-in, gave over her vellum sheet with the authentic-looking bookworm holes, and waited as the salesperson dug underneath the podium.
When the well-manicured hand came up, it was holding a little person in the palm. The salesperson smiled immaculately and set it down. Sandy saw a miniature version of Edgar Allen Poe, but all she knew as that she would be combing that hair when she got home. The salesperson demonstrated the controls, all voice-command. Soon the Edgar Allen Poe model was giving a spirited criticism of socialist health care. Sandy then tried a command of her own, and after seeming to listen the little Poe began to sing a pop hit, doing the accompaniment in falsetto. In the few minutes that they tried different genres, every one sounded a little like Edgar Allen Poe, but the genres were too disparate for him to manage more than the occasional bleak sentence, an ending sigh which sounded like "Nevermore."
When Sandy bought him with her debit card, she got a free chamois bag to keep him in. She happily placed the bag with Poe in it in her sack and walked out. She could hardly wait!