A penny a poem

I walk by, 
hardly even noticing the girl.
In fact, 
it seems as if no one truly realizes she's there. 
She holds a large stack of papers in her hands,
waiting for at least one to be taken.
Her voice doesn't yell,
but calls out words that I haven't heard much before.
"Poems! Poems! A penny, a poem!"
Her face looks not defeated, 
but sadly hopeful. 
I itch to go over and read them,
to experience the words, 
the stories,
the lives,
that are given to the poems. 
But I don't. 
For some reason, 
I don't. 

That night, 
I dream of reading the poems,
reading the lines,
whether sorrowful,
or exciting. 
I decide something as my eyes
softly close.

The next morning,
I rush out to the street,
scanning the crowd of people,
searching for what I desire.
Writing. 
The girl stands on the side once again,
calling out her words.
"Poems! Poems! A penny, a poem!" 
This time I don't walk by.
I stroll up to her and ask to read one of them.
She smiles and hands me a paper.
When my eyes reach the words,
they can't leave them.
The writing simply catches my attention
and doesn't let it go. 

Once I'm finished,
I slowly look to the girl.
"This is... magnificent."
She laughs and thanks me.
When I reach my hand into my bag
to retrieve a penny, she stops me.
"Did you really think it was a good poem?" she asks solemnly.
I smile.
"Of course," I reply. Her lips curve up at the ends. 
"In that case, I don't want a penny," she says with a cheer. 
"Why not?" I wonder. She waits a few moments.
"Truly good writing is priceless. If it is well written, all I want is for people to read it."