Alfred Booth is, in any given order or disorder: An American in Paris. A classical pianist. A modest folder of origami. A teacher. A wearer of a several-times-broken heart on his sleeve. A poet, albeit still learning. A survivor of cancer, still a tense subject. A dilettante cello player. A lover of cats. A sedentary traveler. A black sheep. An orphan, in the large sense of the word. A man preoccupied with traces and death. And he writes about most of it.