I hear feet slapping the floor outside,
reminding me of the mess I'm in
missing something I don't want to do anyway.

I hear it again
with voices attached this time
making me wish I was anywhere but here.

Twenty-five minutes left.
How many more times will feet carry track runners past this door?

A single runner plods by, reaches the doorway,
and sprints back. I hate running,
but anything would be better than this.