Barnes Dance in Pomes and Epigrams

The green man appears.
The chirping that says, “go now.”
A hundred people emerge from their corners
and head in twelve directions at once.
Some are engrossed in conversation,
some stare at their phones.
One guy is in his own psychadelic world, and
plenty, like me,
have headphones.
As these people meet, their tiny judgments
about speed and distance
converge.
Everyone is correct,
because everyone observes the moment. For three seconds,
we know each other better than our mothers.
You pass behind me, and I pass behind that guy.
Ten, nine, eight, seven - a sprinter, and an old woman who does not even care.
Six, five,
four,
three,
two,
one.
Our dance is complete, and in about a minute
I will have new parnters.