NEW YORK SPRINT

As I wait to cross

Broadway at 32nd Street —

a frazzled-looking old man,

sparse white hair disarrayed,

glasses down on his nose,

is in a hurry.

The light has turned red;

undeterred, he moves

into the street, galloping,

giving the lie to his years.

Four lanes of cars

Stall as he releases them, one

by one, holding his right hand

out, palm side to drivers.

“Stop, I can’t be late!”

He crosses safely as I watch,

foolishly worried. It was only

a New York sprint