Waiting Room Static

The clock on the wall,

a plastic eye that blinks

once every minute,

but the hand

doesn't move.

Phone’s dead,

just me and the faded calendar,

a waterfall in Bali

from 2019.

The hum of the lights,

a low-grade headache,

and dust motes

dancing in the thin light,

each one a tiny universe

of nothing to do.

It’s heavier than waiting,

this weight of quiet,

like the air itself

is slowly thickening,

filling my lungs

with cotton.