Waiting Room Cloud

The water stain, like a bruised lung,

on the acoustic tile above my head.

I traced its edges with my eyes,

waiting for my name to be said.

It was a map, or a distorted face,

or maybe just what it was:

a leak, long dried, leaving its trace.

One corner drooped, just a little,

a tired eyelid over tiny fibers.

An hour went by. My back began to ache.

I learned every speck, every dull imperfection.

It held my gaze, a dull distraction,

from the sterile smell, the quiet tension.

And I wondered if anyone else ever saw it,

this small, sad cloud stuck in the ceiling.