slips its noose
around the neck.
sinks its tooth
into the corpse.
There I was today (by now yesterday) at Rizzoli's in front of the poetry section on the third floor, the elevator doors open and an older man calls out, "You're right in front of my book and you don't even see it!" He plucked it off the shelf in front of me. "I saw you read at the Harvard Club," I said to him. "Yes, the place was packed," Menashe agreed. "Three hundred people, and for some reason they didn't let me sell any books there."
Now I feel guilty I didn't buy his book today. There's always next time! (I did buy this one, which bears some distant spiritual relation.)
(Oh, and I didn't embarrass myself by telling him I'm a poet. Personal Dignity 1, Networking 0.)