Flying Across 96th Street

Ever since I saw him fly
I disliked him.

Heard the bat-like crack
as the fender launched him.
Watched him fly by,
grimy baggy clothes
sagging beneath him.
I disliked him

for darting
like a crazed insect
into zooming metal
while I, obedient
and well mannered,
waited out
the solid red.
I disliked him,

watching him lunge into
foolish battle,
without sword or armor,
wingless, aged,
doomed from takeoff,

for being old
for being confused,
for making me
an unwilling intimate
in his fragile finite world
I disliked him.