I am captivated
by a display of poems written by children
in the window of a bookstore.
People stop. . . pause . . . move on.
Then someone stays.
We read in silence for a time.
Are you a poet? I ask.
No, she smiles, but I love poems.
We read on, separate and together.
Then I offer a bowl.
Look she says, it matches my outfit.
and it does.
A happy accident.
Like finding poetry,
or a kindred spirit,
right in the midst of everyday life.
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