like a herky-jerky old man
at Mr. Burger: cherub faced,
a few hairs hurled across his scalp,
eyes too open, as if in them
abides the whole blue sky,
who can't walk
but with the tiniest steps has learned,
that once he's scooted through the door
(provided another person opens it),
and his windup feet keep circling,
as if peddling, perhaps, a small unicycle,
he can cut through the morning
coffee crowd, his fingers stretching out
like wheel spokes, his bony form
bobbing at a calamitous clip.

Soon he's given to the rhythm
of his hips, the dance
of his silver buckle.
If he slows, he'll lose balance
and drop, as he did a month ago.
but he won't be helped.
This morning, he lunges headlong,
catching himself with his fingertips
on the metal counter,
places his order, and patters
to a booth (not the closest one, mind you),
just missing two grandmothers
sharing photos in the middle aisle,
then stiff-legged at his booth
and with a flip of hips,
folds himself in before
the body knows it's been tricked.