I remember seven thousand years ago meeting Rob Fitterman in the Hilton lobby at the AWP conference in New Orleans. Someone introduced him by name and I told him I loved his poems. We’d never met before and I was, essentially, nobody. I was at AWP to moderate and participate on a panel called “Five Years Out: What We Wish We’d Known When We Earned Our MFA.” I represented the relatively newly minted members of the writers association, and I was delighted to be at the conference spending something akin to quality time with the sort of writers I aspired to become. I don’t recall who introduced me to Rob Fitterman, but I was grateful because I had been reading his book and deeply enjoying his poems. I told him as much, and he asked me which ones. I was speechless at that point, unable to give him specifics. Because I had nothing particularly interesting to say to him and he had an active dinner party conversation to look forward to, I was summarily dismissed.