2:15 Appointment

They called me in at 4:30. My slot

had been 2:15. By then I'd worn

my phone to nothing. What I've got

after that: one ceiling tile. The torn

brown edge of a water stain — dinner-plate-wide,

the center lighter than the rim.

I tried to find a face in it, some guide

to something. Nothing came. The dim

fluorescent light beside it flickered —

four times a minute, maybe five.

Across the room a child hollered

once and stopped. Still. Alive

the way waiting makes you: too aware.

They called my name.

I left the stain up there.