The Waiting Room

I waited in the office for two hours,

staring at the formica table,

temporary that became permanent,

a surface worn beyond repair.

The spots that shone

were from thousands of hands,

from people waiting,

from people afraid,

all touching the same plastic,

marking it with their pain.

Coffee rings that wouldn't come off,

scratches deep,

the whole history

written on cheap laminate.

This table was never meant to last,

never meant to stay,

meant to be replaced,

meant to go away.

But here it sits.

Still standing.

Older than me.

Older than all of us.

More permanent than

my apartment,

my job,

my relationships.

This cheap formica table

will outlast us all.