Maroon Again, Different Building

I sat in a maroon chair for three hours.

Not scared—that's what I told myself. Routine.

The vinyl arm worn pale, the patient powers

of other people's grip had rubbed it clean

of color. I tried to read. I turned the pages.

The ceiling had a water stain—no shape,

just brownish spread. The fluorescent cages

above hummed at that pitch, the one like escape

pretending to be calm. And then: second grade.

Gym shirts that same maroon. The rubber smell

by ten o'clock. My name in iron, inlaid

on the tag. The squeak. The particular yell

of sneakers on the bright gym floor.

They called my name. I walked through the wrong door.