The Median

I had the signal.

I want that on record.

The car came anyway—right-on-red,

didn't slow, the mirror

close enough I felt air move,

and I stepped back, stumbled off the curb,

landed on the painted median strip

in the middle of the intersection.

I stood there for a full light cycle

while the orange numbers counted down

on the box across the street.

3.

2.

1.

Cars resumed.

I didn't move.

The whole near-miss takes four seconds.

I know because I've run it back

in the way the brain does for free—

no charge, no way to opt out.

Four seconds.

Which is less time than I've spent

staring at a takeout menu,

less time than it takes to change my mind

about going outside.

The light changed again.

The numbers started over.

I crossed on the second cycle,

walked home, put my keys on the hook,

stood in the kitchen,

and didn't tell anyone

for five days.

Not because it wasn't close.

Because it was close

and then it was just

Tuesday.