The Last Prance

He was walking,

coolly, calmly, no hint of resignation.
The traffic moved around him,


honking, horning, in no state to stop.


With his saddlebag and black umbrella,
he ambled past shop owners,
beggars,
and street children playing at the signal.


Fifty for one, hundred for three shouted some,
he did not pay heed.


People bargained, shopkeepers did not relent,
he kept on walking,
and then


the traffic rules he bent.


The green shone on, the yellow of the taxi in the distance.


He saw his chance, he hesitated, he ran.
The taxi rammed. Into him and ran. Off into the night.


Silence entrenched for a moment,
people looked and ran to help.
It was, but, too late.


A life was taken.
His choice or by chance.


The little feet of the children, after that, never did prance.