Be but a blood cell
in a bus stop's heartbeat -
pumping down streets- prompt,
or late's- the city's mood.
To run or walk- to the stop,
the rhythm's concrete- to either feat,
and riders we - surrender free,
flowing and bounding as driftwood.
//
Foolish those who try to fight-
minds full-on gnashing 'gainst window's light.
Praying 'faster' or for flight
will win neither, nor delight.
//
Best course, if late, is closing eyes
and letting motion melt the ties
that tether you to a wrist watch world
of deadlines, deadbeats, and pretty girls.
. .
Then open up once more and see-
blue-sky-puddles and sidewalk-feet,
which reflect and dance and skip and sing
while missing not one bet or beat
and unaware a' your latency.
//
Then may your smallness there serve you to remind,
Live more to what's in front - than to what's behind.
//

Be but a blood cell
in a bus stop's heartbeat -
pumping down streets- prompt,
or late's- the city's mood.