Clearly Not Fourth Street With your fish hook mouth in the bottom-feeder times, and your eyes like marbles and your skin like rind, and your silver scales and your sermon that whines, Oh, who among the fishermen could fry you? With your pockets full of correct tokens at last, but the streetcar departing that you missed when it passed, and your lizard-like run for it, and your pencil moustache, who among your black girlfriends wouldn’t untie you? With your trail mix nuts and your pumpkin seeds, and the tarot cards you never learned to read, and your op shop hats…