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.