Waiting Room Sky

The fluorescent tubes hummed,

a tired, low frequency,

right above where I lay.

My nephew, small, squirming,

now staring up too.

Those acoustic tiles,

yellowed by years of heat,

each stain a map

of some forgotten leak.

A smudge near panel four,

shaped like a broken bird.

I traced it with my eyes,

the way I used to do,

waiting for the needle prick,

or the doctor’s soft decree.

Same faint smell of antiseptic.

Same dull dread.