Word Thief

“Poems don’t have to rhyme!” she said, shoving an adjective hurriedly into her pocket.

But as she left the shop, I heard her add “If they don’t, it’s a minor crime.”

I locked the door in case she should come back and steal more words:

Some verbs could easily slot into the pocket of her jeans; a noun or two shoved down a sock.

And then where would I be?

Alone, behind the counter, committing a minor crime.

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