“The center, the center.” “Zontle?” “The middle of town. Put it that way.” “Ah, meetzle! ” he recognized, somewhat chuffed, and then sighted his nose down the street in the direction of the Rynek

 

I am what I deserve, blinkered, public,
Get-atable, indecorate, with finch-like tints,
Neither black nor white but always gray,

What man, tell me, ever
crossed the street like that,
an angle boxed on a sign,

There was an odd community giddiness
in that orange-stand shaped like a pagoda,
but also a fabulous wittiness.