Late

The leaves rustle past the man down the street. He's oft to ignore them, his pace set with his fast moving feet. The clopping of black leather shoes against hard stone ground. Each step faster than the last, moving frantically like a blood hound. He checks his watch, half past nine, with this his face grows long. The shiney silver hands of the dial don't lie, they know no wrong. This man is late for work, at his job, as an office clerk.