of the autoshop, the sign that reads,
multi-health services for your car,
the one legged man in the Frankenstein rickshaw wheelchair,
begs for change in the center lane
of the highway that leads out of town.
He itches legs real and missing,
the spot where the pant leg sewn shut with cord and dirt,
the exhaust that coughs, the unconcern of the cars,
his hand trolls for change like a lure skimming the top of frozen pond.