The waiting room is beige and the magazines are old

The waiting room is beige and the magazines are old,

from years before we knew how to be afraid like this.

The clock on the wall moves slow, or maybe I'm just cold—

my hands keep checking my watch though the time hasn't passed.

The chairs are all identical, the kind designed

to make you feel temporary, like you shouldn't get comfortable.

Someone's name gets called and they disappear behind

that door marked AUTHORIZED, and I'm stuck here, unable

to move or check my phone or stop looking

at the entrance where they took her. The clock is still.

My heart is loud. I'm terrible at this looking

like I'm not terrified, but I'm trying, sitting still

in this chair that's shaped like waiting,

this room that exists only for bad news

and the small eternities of not-yet-knowing.

Someone brought flowers. Someone brought bad news.

I'm the one who's waiting for my mom.

I'm the one who keeps forgetting to breathe.