The Dwindling Digits, or, Twenty-Three to Zero

The red hand, steady, then the numbers start.

Twenty-three. The asphalt shimmered hot.

My pulse, a sudden anxious knot.

Why does it feel so urgent, this small part?

Twenty-two. A mother pulls her child.

Twenty-one. The city hums its drone.

I feel a pressure, not my own,

this arbitrary pace, so fierce, so wild.

Seventeen. Just standing here, I feel

my muscles tense, a sudden need to leap.

To cross the street, a promise I must keep

to those blocky digits, brutally real.

Ten. The little walking man, so bright,

he flashes, frantic, urging me to run.

Until it's zero. And the crossing's done.

I walk, but carry that insistent, hurried light.