Stalling

The clock is stuck on half-past four.

The TV shows a silent face.

A nurse walks past the heavy door

and leaves a squeak across the place.

I flip through pages torn and old,

where hidden shapes are circled tight.

The stories have been bought and sold

under the hum of sterile light.

The puzzles are already done.

Someone beat me to the prize.

We’re waiting for the only one

with tired and heavy-lidded eyes.