The Climb

The phone is face-down on the kitchen table.

I put it there.

Two days ago a voice said,

results are in, we'll go over everything—

and named a time.

This afternoon.

I've washed the same cups twice.

Folded a shirt and left it on the chair.

The thing about waiting is it isn't still—

there's a pull to it,

the way a chain moves upward

click by click

and you've already buckled in,

already handed over the small loose things

from your pockets,

and the platform is getting farther away

behind you.

There's a point on the climb

where you can still see the attendant.

She's eating something from a paper sleeve,

not looking at you.

I've been in the same room with the phone

for two hours.

I've been doing the ordinary thing,

moving through the kitchen,

waiting for this afternoon

to just become afternoon.

The attendant doesn't look up.

The chain keeps pulling.