The Pause in the Air

The plastic chairs, a faded, sickly blue,

were bolted down, a permanence

I felt in my own gut. A man, he drew

a long, slow breath, a weary, sad suspense

that hung above the muted screen.

A child dropped a broken plastic truck.

The mother, thin-lipped, didn't intervene.

Just smoothed her hair, as if to tuck

away the sharp edges of her fear.

The air was thick, a kind of heavy stew

of silent questions, things held back and near.

Everyone here, waiting for news,

for a name, for a sign, for a door to swing,

and the fluorescent hum, a dull, flat thing.