The lobby is a holding pen for lungs

The lobby is a holding pen for lungs,

a row of plastic chairs where I sit and disappear.

She calls it out like a sudden command,

three syllables I used to think I owned.

But that last 'K' is a dry snap of bone,

a bit of grit she spits into the air.

I look around to see who she’s finally found,

and it takes a heartbeat to recognize

the person she’s looking for is me.

I stand up and the sound of it stays behind,

shivering on the tile like a dropped glass.