The Jaywalker’s Anniversary
It’s the anniversary of nothing. The year
has sidled past like an idle, would-be thief
casing the joint. He stands, sticking up
for no-one but himself, on the edge of
a mirror he’d one day like to smash with a stone
rolled up in a scrimmage of image.
Cut glass and run for it. He will wait
for the moment, the signal, like a photographer
taking his plate in both hands,
and dissolving, as casual as ectoplasm,
into imagination. Here he is, picking up
pieces of future in amazement
from the pavement. It hasn’t happened.
And probably won’t. Nevertheless, his mime
is sublime, all hands and spasm.