27

The walk sign counts down from 27

and I step into the street—

23, 19, 15, the white figure fading,

my body already too committed to retreat.

A car turns left without seeing me.

I stop. The red hand glows

and I'm frozen in the middle of nothing,

caught between two sides I can't name.

12, 8, 4—the numbers disappear.

The light changes but I don't move.

I'm still standing here trying to remember

what I was waiting for in the first place.