Waiting for the Name

The linoleum is a grid of speckled gray,

designed to hide the scuffs of boots and time.

I’ve watched the clock wash half the day away,

while reading ads for products past their prime.

Across the row, a man begins to eat,

his pretzel bag a loud and plastic shiver.

The crinkling sound is sharp and indiscreet,

a frantic noise that makes the silence quiver.

My sister’s heart is open in the dark,

behind the double doors of heavy steel.

The fluorescent lights have left a sterile mark

on every surface that I cannot feel.