Nice cars
White picket fence
Shoes lined neatly by the door
And nothing on the floor

Running out of time

A suit and tie
And you rush out
Out the door
And onto the streets

Hurry, hurry, running out of time

Down the street
Through the crowd
The ticking of your watch
A mockery of your pace

Too late, too slow

Your lungs and throat burn
Tears sting your eyes
The watch ticks on
You never were good at running

*Too late.