This man squats at a feet level.
His boots and bags are a heap.
He sees walking life and limb.
His horizon rests at our pants.

Once he disappeared from feet
To grow up to the world’s size,
On fresh dead mother-in-law,
MILs being fresh – dead of all.

Now man is back to  business,
In boots and bags, at our feet.
He goes on  with  lower limbs.
His horizon rests at our pants.

(about our street corner cobbler)