His sadness is my sadness; this man in the subway with his back against the tiles and a Russian-looking cap open by his crossed ankles. His eyes are hard on the cap. He might be expecting magic. I wonder, passing, giving up none of my money, whether his stare is an answer to coming police questions about moving on. How has the young man etched himself into this routine? Are the pennies in the cap his? Do the tiles at his back remember him when he is moved on? The subway tells the Canterbury Tales in cartoonish, life-sized figures. A knight; a baker; a wife.