What the Sun Looks Like From In Here

I took a number and sat down

and looked up at the window.

The afternoon sun was hitting glass

that hadn't been cleaned in what looked like years—

the light came through it yellow, smeared,

the way things look when you're underwater

and trying to see the surface.

On the linoleum: a soft spread of it,

blurred at the edges, uneven,

a halo around nothing in particular.

Near the bottom of the glass, a handprint.

Small. Maybe a child's.

The man beside me was asleep

or pretending to be.

I understood both.

My number was called. I missed it.

Heard it again, louder.

Stood up into the yellow light

and walked to the window

with the correct documents.

Everything correctly blurred.