The Triage Hum

The vending machine has a low-frequency moan

that vibrates in the soles of my tired shoes.

I’m sitting here entirely on my own

waiting for the kind of news I’m bound to lose.

There’s a stack of magazines upon the stand

with the hidden pictures circled in thick pen.

Somebody else has already had a hand

in finding all the birds and all the men.

The sliding doors gasp open for a bed

and a rush of sterile air hits the floor.

I’m looking at the carpet’s muddy red

and wondering what I’m still waiting for.