“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.