Seconds Remaining

The asphalt hums beneath a heavy sky,

as city buses lurch and rattle by.

I stand upon the corner, trapped in place,

while cold exhaust hits every tired face.

The walking figure fades to orange light,

a digital '7' burning sharp and bright.

An old man with a cane begins to sway,

losing his rhythm in the middle of the way.

The smog is thick, a veil of grimy gray,

counting the pulses of the dying day.

He’s caught between the curbs, a frantic beat,

while the numbers bleed out on the street.