Tip of his long white cane

I am tired of the view down here
every pavement my stage
guttered with kerb sludge
and fluttering crisp packet kites
he arcs me left and right over asphalt
through splinters of brown broken glass
unblinking, I see him oblivious
to the storm of stares in his wake
listen as he thrums, his eternal humming,
losing me then rescuing me,
his eyes on the ground
from one pavement crack after another,
pausing for a moment, lost
in a hurricane of hand flapping
pressing me earthwards,
pushing me onwards

Sometimes I’ll skirt around shit
sometimes not
I'll clash with pedestrians
take the hit so he doesn’t
let him probe with me, push me
off high kerbs into puddles
like diving board to pool
suffocate me in long grass
burn, broil me on hot tarmac,
sweeping me right and left,
semicircular crescents carving
space for his unsteady walk
heel, toe, heel, toe
with the sway of the weary
or the drunk, clearing a path ahead
I lead as he follows me home