Four Hours

The clock on the beige wall

moved but nobody watched it.

We were all suspended

in the particular time of waiting—

not slow,

not fast,

but sideways,

a direction that only exists

in rooms like this.

The fluorescent light hummed

at a frequency you could feel

in your teeth.

Magazines from 2019

sat on the table

with dog-eared pages.

Someone's phone buzzed silent.

The sound it didn't make

was louder than it would have been.

I sat for four hours

and noticed everything:

the particular beige of the walls—

not cream,

not tan,

something specifically chosen

to be forgettable.

The corner where carpet

had worn to backing.

The way no one made eye contact.

The way we all sat

as if we'd agreed

not to exist too fully here,

not to take up room,

not to make it real.

When they called my name

I didn't recognize it at first.

It sounded like something

from a different life,

before I'd learned

that time doesn't have to move

to move you.

I stood up.

The clock still didn't matter.

The magazines stayed unfinished.

The light kept humming.

I walked through the door

they'd opened

and left the sideways time behind,

which meant I took it with me.