Counting squares

Another hour bled out

in the doctor's waiting room,

the clock's sweep like a hand

dragging across sandpaper.

My eyes went up, again.

Grid of acoustic tiles,

fifty-three across, a faint

yellow stain on the third one down,

from the left. A water mark,

or coffee. Probably coffee.

Then the flecks, the tiny

white dots in the panels, impossible

to count, but I try.

One, two, three, until the number

breaks, and I start again,

just something to hold onto

in the hum, the silence, the slow, slow wait.