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The man who lives below me wants my number on the elevator down. He loved my book—sounds like a scam. I’m old but vain, and soon I’m texting him. He writes that he’s discovering his voice, wants me to read his poesy. His wife just left. My ex is finally gone. How many? I ask. How many what? How many poems will you send? I clarify & then delete. Sorry, I can’t, I type, not a good time. He says he understands—I am a woman with so much (so little) on her plate. I think of him down there, a story on another floor, when I vacuum my cracked oak boards,  wonder what time it is, too early or too late.