The walker

Every morning I watch him 
As I turn left and south up the intersection: 
The uneasy shuffle of his tread, shifting
One foot over the other, lifting one leg 
Higher than the other. A movement of
Great patience—vertigo only a step ahead.
Always a plastic bag in hand, light, but 
Swung with the gravity of his pace. To and fro 
A clockwork wound, whilst his reeling gait a 
Prudent stature. Marching north, a race 
Measured by the strides of his shorter heel.

Dale Chou
2012-08-15