Meniscus

He leaned against the dirt 
With his chest close enough to the ground and 
Eavesdropped every pair of legs. 
They mostly ignored him, 
But enough attention was paid 
To avoid him. 
The rich women 
With last autumn's fashion 
Side-stepped, as the sun sparkled, gleaming white
Light as those venomous beads breathed
Through the grey pores of his forehead.

Everyone ignored
The footprints that printed his right hand,
Which oared and clawed 
Through the streams of street. 
His torso pulsed forwards
With a bowl even further placed. 
It was in front of him—
His priority—life—
And it was pushed
Before him to survive.

I wondered 
How the world would look like
In his dimension: differentiated and tilted, 
With the corner of his mouth slightly ajar, 
Looking up to inch along his path—
Would he notice that the meniscus, microscopically
Viewed, may be the roughest place to see the end? 
The ponder lasted a moment, and
Barely left a scratch. 
The sand covered him 
Well, and I side-stepped—past him—
Then ran.

Dale Chou
2002-01-30