I hold old coffee, long cold
in its paper cup. Rest my head
on my palm, an attest to slumber—
see a janitor glide past as his vigil
begins, marked by thin wax
slick shining in his wake.

I like this waiting room, tucked
away and quiet, still the murmurations
of sorrow seep through walls
and floors in tenderest vibrations
that seek me without permission,
hope for consolation.

I am fixed to my chair, afraid
to move, to rove, to attempt
to walk through their pain. How
can I exempt myself from their suffering—
isn’t this why I came?