Saturday 2.47p.m.

Rushing
static free,
The dodge and weave
The sidestep and double shuffle
Outer clothes brush and flap a ruffle
Ever so slightly.
“Cant be late.”
Carving through the crowd:
Pedestrian verses pedestrians
The slow drooling cumbersome ones who stop
Who stall
And ponder over their wonderings.
“Get out of my way. Have you nothing better to do?”
Shifting from heel to toe as the instinctive jolt and pivot demands. “idiot,”
I call to one who shunts left suddenly.
One that represents all of them to me.
Frustration becomes the harbinger of anger.
I am unable to tell if I am annoyed with the awkward people impeding my travels,
or at myself
for hurrying to be on time so I may wait for one known for his lateness.

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