by Tracy K. Smith

I watch him bob across the intersection,

Squat legs bowed in black sweatpants.

I watch him smile at nobody, at our traffic

Stopped to accommodate his slow going.

His arms churn the air. His comic 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 least leaf

Shivers in the sun, while we sit, bothered,

Late, captive to this thing commanding

Wait for this man. Wait for him.