Level 3

Three hours in the concrete holding tank,

fluorescent lights bolted to the ceiling,

humming like they're angry at having to exist.

I sat in my car with the engine off.

The space smelled like other people's exhaust,

like oil and desperation and the waiting

that happens in hospitals.

Someone's surgery was taking longer than planned.

The nurse said "You can go, it'll be a while,"

so I came down here instead,

to this particular shade of gray,

to this particular frequency of hum.

Level 3.

The sign was faded.

Someone had written a number on their ticket stub

and I wondered if they found their car,

or if they're still here,

wandering through these rows

of metal boxes that hold us

while we wait to know

if the people we love

are going to be okay.

The light kept humming.

The air didn't move.

I couldn't leave.