What's Watching Back

The stain is shaped like someone's mouth,

or what a mouth looks like when it's about to speak

and thinks better of it.

I've been staring at it for twenty minutes.

My name will be called soon.

They'll want my arm, my blood,

some proof that I'm still functioning.

But right now the ceiling is more honest.

The tile is water-damaged at the edges,

the acoustic foam breaking down,

dust collecting in the dimples like dirt in a palm line.

The fluorescent light hits it wrong,

makes the stain glow,

makes it look like something is trying to get out.

I wonder how many people have lain on that gurney,

looked up at exactly this tile,

and thought the same thing.

Hundreds, probably.

Maybe thousands.

The mouth doesn't speak.

It just stays there,

receiving light,

collecting dust,

being stared at by people

who have nowhere else to look,

no one else to talk to,

just time

and this small, discolored square

that someone decided was good enough

to leave alone.

I want to know when they last changed it.

I want to know if they're going to,

or if this tile is permanent now,

if this mouth will outlast me.

The hygienist calls my name.

I look away.

The stain is still there when I turn back,

unchanged,

patient,

waiting for the next person

to find it and wonder

what it means.