You glance at my shoe and I catch you trying to imagine what kind of person I am. Yes, I wear lace, cotton and hemp that does not go well with your white shirt and post-modern tie, all geometric diamonds of black, silver and grey.

Today, you look a serious poet, a black tousled shirt with white pinstripes, a thin book of Poe in your hands, a furrow of concentration on your forehead.

I want the fat man standing at the door of the train to move - at least his belly - out of the way so I could read the title your fingers partially conceal. Another man looks across at me, perhaps noticing that I am staring too hard. Who's the real poet besides the one who wrote the book?