High Flyer
I once had a truck rumble past me
at high speed along a pock-marked street in Nairobi.
Caught in the dust of its wake,
I turned around and covered my mouth,
quietly berating its discourtesy.
There was a man in a wheelchair,
clinging to the truck.
Front wheels up, spinning in the slipstream
Arms high, hands clinging to the fender.
Riding backward,
laughing and yahooing,
like a rocket man on takeoff,
the truck, the man, the wheelchair and all
rattled down the road
and then they were gone.
I often wonder about that man
and what might have happened to him.
But most of all,
I think about the glorious
abandonment of caution.
Faith or fatalism,
Who am I to say?
For a man with no legs,
he sure was going places.