Stuck at 3:17

The faded yellow clock face blinks

its frozen hands at three and seventeen —

cracked near the seven like a brittle tooth,

stubborn in its silent refusal to tick.

Around me, breaths sigh heavy in the waiting room,

a chorus of bodies pressing against time’s stillness.

Each second drips away, unspent,

a lazy echo in the cluttered DMV air.

I watch the hands like they might betray

some secret, slip forward or fold back —

but they are locked, a quiet rebellion,

and I am stranded in their frozen circle,

counting the seconds that will never pass,

breath held beneath flickering fluorescents,

hoping the clock might break,

or maybe I will,

before the world catches up.