What you notice when you're waiting

Twenty minutes of staring

at the water stain,

at the dark mark

on the acoustic tile,

the kind of thing

that makes you smile

at nothing,

at the fact that

the ceiling is falling,

and you're just

waiting.

The stain had geography—

coastlines and continents

made of water damage,

a shifting image

that depends

on the light,

and if you squint right,

you can see

a face

in the place

where water

has done its work.

A nose.

A mouth.

A chin that fades

into shades

of beige.

I traced the outline

with my eyes,

tried to disguise

the fact that I was here

to hear

news I didn't want,

that I was caught

between the ceiling

and the feeling

that I'm running out of time.

The face in the stain

seemed in pain,

or maybe just tired,

maybe just wired

to wait,

like me,

to see

what comes next.

The fluorescent light

buzzed bright,

the stain shifted,

the face drifted

back into water damage,

and they called my name

before I could manage

to disappear

into the ceiling.