When she sees people duck out of sight as she comes toward them,
it occurs to her that they might worry about being the subject

of a future poem, which—as in her days as a journalist,
always trolling for stories—they might be. Who made her

a daily poet anyway? What drives her to generate and
share a poem 24/7? What has she got to write that’s so

poemworthy? No one says this, might not even think it,
but this thief does, boldly striding through the world,

snatching snippets out of the air, inhaling florals as she
walks by, tucking them into the bottomless drawers

in her poet brain, later having no idea where she has
filed them. But that’s the nature of poets and writers.

“Everything is copy,” Nora Ephron’s mother said,
grist for the mill. So you have been duly warned:

When you see her coming, you might want to
absent yourself, head off in another direction.

Then again, you might be willing to become
part of her ongoing quest, might be touched

to find yourself part of a love poem—
which every one of them is, it turns out—

tenderly set into lines just like these
for you.