Ten Fingers Gone

The red hand, blocky, against the night.

It started at ten, a digital, stark light

on the pole, its numbers shrinking, one by one.

A race I knew could not be won.

Nine. The air felt thin. Eight. A car went by.

Seven. My reflection in a puddle, eye

on the disappearing digits, knowing

the green wouldn't wait. No chance of going.

Three. Two. Then just the red palm, solid, still.

The street, a sudden river I couldn't fill

with my crossing. Just a pause. A held breath.

Another small, observed, impending death.