Fluorescent Hum

The chairs were a pattern, worn and gray,

swallowing hours as they slipped away.

Disinfectant, stale coffee, a muffled cough,

the low, hushed tones that never quite take off.

A flickering TV, muted, showing news

no one truly watches, just background blues.

An old man sleeps, his head against the wall.

A woman picks at her nails, stands, begins to fall

into herself, then catches, sits back down.

Each face a story in this waiting town.

My mother, somewhere behind a closed door,

and I, here, listening to the PA call for

a name I don't know, a different life's turn.

Just the quiet, constant fluorescent burn.