The other night, your correspondent found himself—geographically, but spiritually, too—in Toronto’s financial district. It was rush hour, and professionals in suits and business casual were streaming past. Only one busker (on alto sax) and a few scalpers held their ground; the rest were off to other pleasures: home, dinner, Cougar Town. You can feel a little silly in such bustling company, especially when you’re on your way to a poetry reading. But you can feel a little superior, too, like the speaker in that great report of rush hour, “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry” by Walt Whitman: a …