Tile

My niece on my phone. I looked up.

Drop ceiling—same grid

as Dr. Kessler's. Same sag.

Same watermarks. 1991.

One tile had a brown stain

shaped like nothing. Just damage.

But I stared at it so hard it became a country—

gave it a capital, a language

only I spoke while the doctor said

you'll feel a pinch.

My niece tugged my sleeve.

She wasn't even scared.

I was still counting.