“I saw your sign,” she said, walking into his small shop.
“Oh. Yeah,” he muttered, shyly.
“I came in to help you pick up the words.”
“That’s really nice of you. They’re all over the floor. See,” he said, looking down.
“Wow. That’s a lot of words,” she said, starting to pick them up. “Are you a writer?”
“Well, get down here and gather up the words. You can’t write a poem without them.”
“Right,” he said, bending over.
“Did your pen really break by accident?”
“It did. I press too hard, when I write, and sometimes my pen snaps. But this is the first time so many words fell out.”
“But aren’t the words inside of you? I mean words shouldn’t be inside the pen, right?”
He shrugged. “I often send the words on ahead, while I’m thinking of what I want to write next.”
“I didn’t know you could do that.”
“Really? I thought everyone did that.”
“I don’t think so, and there are more words under that chair,” she said, pointing to his left.
He picked them up then looked around. “I think we got them all,” he said. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Next time try not to press so hard on your pen.”
“It just happens. I get lost in thought and…snap.”
“I get it,” she snickered. “You’re in the zone.”
“Totally in the zone.”
“Well, have a nice day,” she said, smiling at him.
“Can I take you to lunch? Right now, I mean.”
“Uh, you don’t have to do that,” she said.
“I know I don’t have to, I want to do it. We can go across the street to, IT CAN’T GET ANY FRESHER THAN THIS. It’s a vegetarian cafe, with really good food.”
“Sure,” she said. “Why not.”
And that was that. The poet who broke his pen (accidentally) found love, while picking his words up off the floor. And after a brief period of “getting to know each other,” they lived poetically ever after.