Missing Time

I was in the waiting room

and the clock was there

on the beige wall,

numbers and hands

that didn't seem to move

at all.

Twelve minutes, I thought.

Just twelve minutes.

But then it was an hour later

and I couldn't account for where

the time had gone,

just that I'd been staring,

just that the clock

had kept its secret,

just that I'd disappeared

into the space between

the minute hand and myself.

Time isn't linear in waiting rooms.

It pools and thickens.

It becomes something you lose

rather than something you measure.

When they called my name,

I didn't know how long

I'd been sitting there.

I just knew

that an hour of my life

had evaporated

and I would never

get it back,

would never even

remember

what I was thinking about

while it was disappearing.

The clock just kept

moving forward,

indifferent,

like it knew

that I wasn't

keeping up.