Staring Up

The tile above my chair is a small universe of stain—

coffee-colored, pooled in dimples, mapping nothing in particular.

I've been here an hour or ten minutes,

depends on how you count time in a waiting room,

and instead of scrolling through my phone

like everyone else, I'm squinting at the brown,

trying to make it into a face. A profile.

The side of someone who isn't here.

The receptionists type. A child coughs.

The hand sanitizer smell is getting to me.

I could be thinking about why I'm here—

the thing wrong with my eyes, the thing

that made me make this appointment.

But it's easier to stare up, to find meaning

in water damage, to pretend I'm not waiting

for someone to confirm what I already know.

That I'm not seeing things clearly.

That I've been missing something all along.

The irony is almost funny. Almost.

When the nurse calls my name, I'll look down

for the first time. I'll follow her back

into the bright room where they'll shine

a light directly into the thing I've been hiding from.

But for now, I have this stain.

This broken ceiling. This borrowed face.

I'm not ready to look anywhere else.