Forty-Five Seconds

Forty-five, forty-four,

a red hand held against the glare.

This hurried beat, a metronome

for nothing much, just stale city air.

The exhaust fumes, a bitter taste,

the constant push, no time to waste.

For what? To cross the asphalt wide,

with nowhere vital on my side.

Thirty, twenty, down it slips,

past hurried faces, moving lips.

The dry cleaner's, a shirt to fetch,

another errand, a daily stretch.

Ten, five, the final plea,

the numbers mock a faster me.

Then zero. Walk. But where to go

when all the urgency feels low?

Just another hurried sprint,

a rhythm without consequence.