He struck off into the park
but at ten to 3 was himself struck
by the rotting branch of an old maple tree.
He was crowned mid-stride.
He might've sat beneath that tree,
lifted his eyes to the cold city skies
to script a new constellation of designs.
But he was knocked out mid-stride.
He might've been killed outright.
But he was laid flat mid-stride.
His mind will never be what it might have been.
He was benighted mid-stride.