Somewhere in the pit of my stomach
is where anticipation
and impatience
meet and mingle

I can’t get there fast enough it seems
wherever there is
whenever there is
my way is blocked by those around me who are
slower
more intentional
not infected by the sickness of
hurry.

I want to live in the next moment
not this one
not the one that just passed
so I stretch and reach
like a disenchanted yogi
for what I will never possess
a head-start on the next

because if I get there first
I get a prize, right?
There has to be some reward
because I am not the only one
with this infection
I know because I feel guilty
when the car behind me pushes the horn
if I don’t leave the light the instant the green glows

while we want to get to the moment of motion
others don’t want theirs to end
and we crumble in the middle
where hurry introduced us.