I watch him bob across the intersection,
Squat legs bowed in sweatpants.
I watch him smile at nobody, at our traffic
Stopped to accommodate his slow going.
His arms churn the air. His cosmic jog
Carries him nowhere. But it is as if he hears
A voice in our idling engines, calling him
Lithe, Swift, Prince of Creation. Every last leaf
Shivers in the sun, while we sit, bothered
Late, captive to this thing commanding
Wait for this man. Wait for him.
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