Acoustic Tile

Four hours on a chair of molded plastic,

waiting for a news that’s not fantastic.

I leaned my head back till the vertebrae creaked,

staring at the ceiling where the old pipes leaked.

The tiles are pockmarked with a thousand holes,

the same ones that watched over younger souls.

In the fluorescent lens, a fly has found its rest,

trapped in the light, failing the final test.