Distractedly I cross Kungsgatan
patched unevenly now with reworked tar
Mid-way the light changes and
I am marooned for a moment
at the traffic island     a no-man’s-land
 
A sudden crack jolts me out of my reverie
and I turn to see an old man
splayed on the hard ground
prosthetic limb lifeless on the road:
discarded timber adrift on a dark river
 
I help him to sit then reach
to retrieve the wayward leg
which he takes from me wordlessly
bends forward     begins to pull and push   
swivel and straighten
 
He rests then until the sweat
on the paper-thin skin of his forehead
grows cold     And when he’s ready
I help him to his feet and watch
as he looks ahead and slowly limps away