Pedestrian

A man in my city
          a long time before
          it was mine
carved a home under
the sidewalk, burrowed into
the earth like
an animal. In his home, 
          I imagine
that the pedestrians sounded
like a rainstorm, that the factories
building furniture and cars were muffled by
dirt, that the city was
gentler from underground. 

He lived
encapsulated in the earth
for months before being pulled out
by policemen. Then, a person could do
any incredible thing unnoticed, far enough
into the past for a photograph to be precious. 

          I read this man’s story encased
on frail newsprint in cool air alongside thousands of
stories, only to be touched with
gloved hands. 
          I’ve read about him once. 
          I’ve forgotten his name.