He sat impatiently at the light,
waiting for it to change,
then stepped on the gas, spinning a tire.
He knew he was going to be late,
knew he was speeding far
too fast as he passed traffic on the left.

He wasn't about to be left,
he thought as he jammed a cigarette into the light.
No one had walked out on him so far
and that wasn't about to change.
He'd make her explain her behavior of late
then complain that her voice would make anyone tire.

But suddenly he blew a tire.
He pulled off, cussing, to his left,
slamming the door.  It was getting late,
and he had only matches with which to light
the ruined tire he had to change.
He kicked the cover, denting it far

into the wheel that would take him so far
but no farther.  He cursed the tire
as he made the change,
then pulled violently from where it was left,
noticed only by his passing light.
He knew he was going to be late,

but flights at night were often late.
The airport wasn't far.
He sped through a yellow light,
feeling a shimmy in the spare tire
as he swerved before traffic, turning left.
He entered the expressway eagerly for a change.

Soon he would know what had made her change.
If only he wasn't too late.
He'd never be able to explain why she'd left.
How could she take it so far?
He pulled to the terminal with a screech of a tire
and ran for the bright white light.

"But I can change!" he screamed to the far
off flight that wasn't late as it taxied away on shadow tires.
He knew he'd been left as he watched the soaring light.