Forty Appointments

My friend asked what the waiting room looked like.

We were standing in a parking lot.

I've been in that room forty times —

I know the smell.

Something antiseptic cut with

the warmth of recycled air.

I know the sound the check-in window makes

when the glass slides.

But the chairs.

I couldn't say.

Beige, maybe. Or that green

that isn't quite sage.

A wall with something on it — a painting?

A print? I stood there with my hands

in front of me like I was trying to read

something in them.

Forty appointments. Forty times I sat there

and looked at whatever I looked at

and none of it stayed.

My friend said, never mind.

I said, I really should know this.