Waiting for the light to flip.
Cars fly twenty over, a hospital zone. A lanky young man, pants hanging low hips like a magic trick, bops to his silent music, fingers clacking, knees bending.
"X-rated, x-rated," another man, this one silver templed, peddles boosted nips of high-octane booze.
Across the street, a woman wavers. Already you can fry sunny-side ups on asphalt. She crumples, implodes inward slow-mo.
Cars stop. The white walking man says walk.
I cross. A half-dozen attend the fallen woman. The pusher makes a sale, and the bopping dude vaults through the cross-walk, a gazelle on speed.
Fifteen seconds on my way to work.