Yellow Light

The yellow light, a muted hum.

Disinfectant, sharp and clean.

On worn chairs, bodies sat numb,

a quiet, anxious, in-between.

Muted television, a distant voice.

Another's worry, whispered low.

No real choice, just a grim rejoice

when names were called, then watched them go.

The patterns on the fabric worn.

Fingernails picked, a constant fret.

Hope and fear, quietly born,

in every silent, cold sweat.

Just sitting, waiting for the news.

That hollow space inside the chest.

These endless, institutional blues,

putting patience to the test.