He veers back and forth down twenty-fourth
avenue, as I walk
towards my house on thirty-sixth.

He glides one way, and almost grazes the sleeping cars,
engines cold, lined up
at the road’s edge.
His body balances, bent at the knees,
at the waist; his arm reaches out and downward
and stiff, and his fingertips taste the concrete.

At first I think he is headed towards me, surfing
towards the train, or maybe further, as
far as the park or the Triborough bridge, but
He doubles back, full loop, to one
spot on the corner of Twenty-fourth and Thirty-fifth.

As I approach I see her,
hands in pockets, her breath rapid firing
in evaporating explosions
through a thick wool scarf hiding her face.

She watches, and he circles and swerves
and the cars envy his agility. The sweeping, careening
path he cuts. And I walk home, back sore, to Emily, and
a dinner of steak and mashed potatoes.