He paces like the gears in his head
are connected to the ligaments
in his knees; like it’s an Olympic sport,
the rush of his gait a swinging pendulum
against half-sentences and scheduled timetables.
He paces like going in circles is the only
way to keep from getting lost; like wandering
thoughts make a wandering body, too tangled
in the abstract to find the ground.
He paces like conversation is a labyrinth;
like being a metronome keeps him on track;
like he’s in a hurry to be exactly where he is.
Like going nowhere will eventually lead to somewhere.