Tally

One, two, three, four, the squares overhead.

White, acoustic, speckled, bland.

I trace the lines, what was unsaid,

while waiting. It’s a trick of hand,

or eye. The way my mind will go,

when silence stretches, thin and taut.

The water stain, a faint, slow flow,

on number eight. A thought, unthought,

becomes a pattern. Twenty-three.

I do it every time, I guess.

A quiet comfort, just for me,

against the soft, low, anxious stress

that waits outside. A little game.

Just counting, counting, till they call my name.