Stain

The water stain is still there,

on the ceiling where it's been,

same acoustic tiles, same glare,

same waiting room where I've been.

I was eight when I first came,

terrified of the doctor's touch,

staring at that water stain

because it hurt too much.

Twelve years later, same place.

My niece is sitting here with me.

She's looking at the stain's space,

probably wondering what it means.

The fluorescent light is humming.

The receptionist is calling names.

Nothing changes, nothing's coming

to fix the damage or the stains.

We'll both remember this,

this room, this stain, this hum,

the way certain places persist,

the way damage just stays done.