Parallel Lines

The lobby smells like carpet cleaner

and the ozone of a dying copier.

I’m wearing my father's trousers,

the waist bunched under a cheap belt

that doesn't quite match.

My palms are slick.

I press them into the corduroy,

feeling the ridges, the stiff valleys

of the heavy, outdated tan.

I rub them hard, back and forth,

trying to dry the panic off.

When I look down, my hands are etched

with a dozen red, parallel lines,

temporary scars from a man

who never had to wait in this chair.