Seven Seconds

The orange hand blinks

like a warning light on a sinking ship.

I’m at the corner of 4th and Main,

the yellow paint on the pole

is flaking off in dry, sulfurous scabs.

Seven, six, five.

My heart is trying to outrun the clock.

Someone stuck their gum here,

a gray, calcified lump

that’s seen more of this city than I have.

I’m going to be late

to explain why I can’t be civil

while the streetlights wait to change.