Hour

The clock in the dark room

said I was already an hour late.

The alarm had been going off

or not going off,

I'll never know which.

Three months I waited for that appointment.

Three months of phone calls,

of being on hold,

of being told there were no openings

until March.

March came.

I slept through it.

The room was dark.

The clock kept the time.

I woke up knowing

something was wrong

before I checked the phone,

before I saw the calendar,

before I understood

that I'd just erased

three months of waiting.

I called the office.

The receptionist's voice

was patient and kind,

which made it worse.

"We can reschedule,"

she said.

But I knew better.

The next opening

wouldn't be until June.

I went back to bed.

The room was still dark.

The clock kept moving.