by Michael Bettencourt

Created on: June 15, 2008

ON CROSSING THE STREET

At the streetcorner he looks thick and straight,
like a man waiting to run the bulls -
but his first step off
the sanctuary of the curb
shows how crippled he is,
hips askew, arms arrhythmic,
legs swung like bell clappers,
all jerk and thrust and ungrace.
He moves one step out,
then another,
feeling the humid animal breath
push on his vulnerable nape,
but a horn blast grazes his gut
and, warned, he moves back.
A dozen feet from him
the dry flattened pelt of a squirrel
scabs the parallel yellow,
holds the welt of cloven treads.
Sign and signature: he pushes
the walk button and waits until
the trinity of lights release him,
the cusps of impatient cars
pocking his skin.
Soon all trace elements of squirrel
will be pestled to spice the asphalt;
he will still be shambling
in a palsy of crossing.
Not everything that crosses the road lives
the "Don't Walk" oracle signs to him -
he knows what squirrels don't
for all the good it will do him.

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