The Shadow Returns

I counted the rotations

of the fan without deciding to.

One, two, three. The shadow on linoleum

moved in a circle, always true

to its path, always returning

to where it started. By hour two

I'd lost the count but kept counting.

The numbers meant nothing. The truth

was just the fan turning,

the shadow returning,

the doctor running late,

and me sitting and waiting.

The fan didn't know

I was counting. The shadow

didn't care that I watched it move

across the cold floor below.

By hour three I'd stopped

keeping track of numbers.

The fan just kept its pace.

The shadow kept its measures

against nothing. The room

was cold. The plastic chair

held me. I was the only one

counting. No one else was there.

The shadow returned and returned.

Again. Again. And I learned

that waiting has its own time,

its own rhythm, its own rhyme.