Beatific

I watch him bob across the intersection,
Squat legs bowed in black sweatpants.

I watch him smile at nobody, at our traffic
Stopped to accommodate his slow going.

His arms churn the air. His comic jog
Carries him nowhere. But it is as if he hears

A voice in our idling engines, calling him
Lithe, Swift, Prince of Creation. Every least leaf

Shivers in the sun, while we sit, bothered,
Late, captive to this thing commanding

Wait for this man. Wait for him.


"Beatific" by Tracy K. Smith from Such Color: New and Selected Poems. Copyright © 2021 by Tracy K. Smith. Reprinted by permission of The Permission Company, LLC, on behalf of Graywolf Press, www.graywolfpress.org.