The waiting room hums a dull low drone

The waiting room hums, a dull, low drone,

and I'm a statue, mostly left alone.

My eyes drift up, past the fluorescent glare,

to the acoustic tiles, high up there.

Each square a grid, a pattern to discern,

a small, safe ritual where thoughts can turn.

I count them, row by row, an ordered trance,

just something steady, to avoid a glance.

And then I find it, sixth tile from the door,

a brown bloom, spreading, staining the white floor

of the ceiling. Like some strange, new land,

a continent held in a single hand.

I map its shape, its edges, every bend.

A world contained, until the counting ends.