every day. His hands
drive him, steering him straight
and back, over sidewalk
cracks.  Turning him left

and right into the night. Taking him
up hills and down streets,
into the grocery store without
leaving his seat. In the rain and

the snow, as the March winds
blow. On a hot day in June, the scorching
sunny afternoons.  Looking at women
from his chair. The walking world

so unaware of the car
that hit his bike. And left him
in a coma overnight. But his sneakers
don't *****. He’s worn the same pair
since the ripe age of thirty!