The Fly's Orbit

The fluorescent hum, a dull, low drone,

in this waiting room, so alone.

My number hasn't moved for hours,

watching the dust fall like slow showers.

A fly keeps bumping, soft and dim,

against the glass, along the rim

of the same smudge, over and over.

It can't get out, this little rover.

My mind feels like that fly, it seems,

just buzzing on forgotten dreams.

What's the point? What's the reason?

Another slow, gray, empty season.

The plastic chair, it digs and bites.

Just empty days, and longer nights.