A poet

I know a poet.
She’s been writing poetry for years.
In her personal notebooks and diaries.
Reading them at a coffeeshop.
Handing out leaflets and pamphlets.
Submitting them to magazines, receiving rejection letter after rejection letter.
And then, she gets published.
A magazine here, a university collection there.
Submitted for a few prizes, until she wins a few.
Then the commissions roll in.
Write a thousand words on this, two thousand on that.
From self-published books to a publishing deal.
All the while, she’s been sharing them with me.
And I’ve been deleting them.
I’m not all that into poetry.