I’m sitting here watching the traffic speed past. A sewage truck is a few car lengths ahead, it’s driver pushing a metal barrel toward it, his face contorted from what I assume is smell. A partner joins him and they insert tubes into the can, sucking away tge foul contents. Nearby, the jack hammers tear apart concrete. Clouds of dust bloom around the workers head. The lady behind me parks too close – and crooked, her car jutting into the bike lane that runs alongside the cars. I’m surveying the area, again, looking for the officer who assesses tickets in this two hour spot I’m occupying. If I pay now, I’ll have to run out mid-appointment to pay again. The clock ticks ever so slow. A few more minutes, and then I’ll head into the doctors with the usual uncertain feeling that accompanies visits like this one.