Late

Minutes pass,
then seconds.
Suddenly, the miliseconds
seems to have become poignantly important.

Run
run
run.

The lights turn from green to the glaring red.
Panting
sighing
worry
pounds the mind and
the heart beats in quick staccato,
and almost stops
when the familiar three digit number
on the illuminated placard of the vehicle
comes into view.

It zooms past
and feet patter hurriedly,
helplessly
frustratedly,
across
slowing to a discontented stop.

A look at the hands
of the numbered face,
tells of a wait for the next ten minutes.
Agitated.
Praying hard that the next won't be late.