Caught

The waiting room is eighty-four,

the radiator hums a threat.

I’m huddled by the heavy door

in wool that’s turning dark with sweat.

The silver teeth have bitten down

upon a thread of cheap blue ply.

I pull and jerk, a clumsy clown,

as every stranger watches me try.

The metal clicks a frantic beat,

it will not rise, it will not fall.

I sit and bake in nylon heat,

locked inside myself after all.