Being late makes me very nervous. All my life I hated being late, as it always felt like I was letting myself and others down. I don’t know where I got this trait, but as I age, it is getting harder and harder to be late. The mere thought of it sends my heart racing and my mind spiraling into a whirlwind of anxiety. Now, I must be at least 15 minutes ahead of time before I start to get nervous, constantly checking the clock to ensure I won’t miss a moment. This obsession with punctuality frustrates my wife because she is the type to be close to on time or a little late, often reminding me to relax and enjoy the moment. However, for me, being late equates to chaos and disorder, and I find it difficult to shake off that feeling. Once I’m there, finally settled into the environment, I start to calm down, but until that point, it’s a constant battle against my own apprehensions and the pressure I put on myself.

I hurry in,
heart tapping its own Morse code,
hoping no one noticed
the way time slipped past me.
Being late shouldn’t matter—
yet somehow
my pulse insists it does.

An AI poem.