Poem: Bad Timing

By Jack Brummet 

He buys a coffee,
Using his last seven words.
He slyly eyes
His last pair of stunning buttocks.
He has zero orgasms, songs and movies,
Two red lights, six blocks,
13 minutes and 993 heartbeats left.
Every millisecond adds up:
Every variable conspires
To remove him from the census.
He steps in front of the car
Three seconds early,
Or two seconds late.
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