The clock hands drag

The clock hands drag,

an almost imperceptible scratch

on the plastic face.

Hours blur.

The vending machine hums,

a low, constant note

behind the tired drone

of the TV, muted, just colors.

My fingers trace the faded pattern

on the armrest, a thread loose,

picked thin by someone else's wait.

Every cough, every door opening,

jerks a muscle I didn't know was tight.

It’s all held here.

Everything.