Waiting

Twenty minutes watching the second hand

tick past numbers I've memorized.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Like listening would change anything,

like attention could make time

move faster or slower or

mean something different.

The waiting room is beige.

A coffee maker from some other decade.

A magazine no one reads.

And the clock with its steady beat—

the one thing that doesn't lie,

that doesn't care why I'm here,

why my leg bounces,

why I've checked my phone

six times already.

The hand reaches twelve,

starts over. Reaches twelve,

starts over. A metronome

for anxiety. A teacher

of useless patience.

I could close my eyes.

I could read that ancient magazine.

Instead I'm here with the tick,

learning how to sit with waiting,

how the body keeps score

even when the clock

keeps time.

My name will come eventually.

I'll stop listening.

The clock will keep its beat.

And I'll remember this—

the way attention

never made anything

move faster.