Linoleum

My mother's foot won't stop bouncing.

Up, down, up, down,

against the gray linoleum

that's been buffed clean

by the shoes of people

waiting for news

they don't want to hear.

The magazines are from 2019.

Glossy covers, fold lines creased

from strangers' thumbs,

articles about celebrities

I don't recognize,

recipes for casseroles

no one is making.

A woman next to me

is reading the same page

she's been reading

for twenty minutes.

The digital board changes.

A name appears.

Someone stands.

Someone leaves.

Time moves

but not for us.

My mother's shoe bounces.

I can hear the rhythm of it,

the small percussion

of impatience,

of fear,

of the body doing something

because the mind

won't stop thinking.

I reach over and touch her knee.

Her foot stops.

We sit in silence.

The board changes again.

Another name.

Another person's moment

to be called.

The waiting room is full of people

who all know something

I'm trying not to know,

who all feel the same weight,

the same slow-motion dread

of a room where nothing

is happening

and everything

is happening

at exactly the same time.

My mother's foot starts again.

Up, down.

I don't stop it this time.