Just get out and run you a mile —
That possibility hangs heavy
over a quiet street and a flyover, blue tarpaulin
above shanties on the tar banks.
The morning is mist, the era of road repair,
orthogonal routes to far-flung stops;
the city’s breed of transport
softly collapsing on pilfered ground.
Not to startle: tiptoeing —
with vim, without vim —
a motion made to seem like stillness.
Rest. Arrest. Breathe.
