The Waiting Room Sky

Hours bleed, a slow disease,

under the fluorescent hum.

My eyes, seeking some ease,

found a geography undone.

That acoustic square, a sickly stain,

seeped in from somewhere lost.

A map of dull, persistent rain,

counting up the cost.

It spread out, brown and deep,

a bruise upon the white.

Secrets the plaster keep,

hidden from the light.

Each speck, a tiny, anxious plea,

a world I can't escape.

This damp infinity,

holding its ugly shape.