By Patrick T. Reardon

Where can the walking man find what he seeks?


He strides to the corner and, waiting,

nods his head yes yes yes yes yes yes yes.


Green, and he is on the move again.

T-shirt in the cold. His hair a nest.


He is the babe held tight by an aunt.

The child who grabbed the radiator.

Jumped the fence for a dollar.


He is the soul of the Universe

as the bus is coming

and he is walking parallel to it,

coming to the corner and nodding



His eyes are wide open for the answer I don’t have.