Becomes the never barefoot man,
eyes welded to the sidewalk, shoes
treading a mine-field of discarded
nails and broken glass, laces looped
in cautious symmetry. For greater distances,
he crawls into a sleeve of Swedish
steel, tortoises while those around him
hare. Keeps one eye on the rear-view
mirror while the other measures
car-lengths. In the evening when we
phone him, he’s always, always home.
 
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Fred Longworth's poems have recently appeared in miller's pond, The Pacific Review, Pearl, Pudding House, and various incarnations of the worm. He lives in San Diego, and makes his living restoring vintage audio components.
E-mail: stereo1 at cox dot net
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