Dashing through the ____.

Zipping down the sidewalk a nerve among nerves, as guilty as anybody, I see a man ahead on the street corner trying to stop passersby, a bundle of pamphlets under one of his arms, his free arm proffering.

"Hello," he says, when I walk into the six feet around him. He calls after me, "Do you read poetry?"

"No." I'm already past him.


No?