The clock on the wall has a stuttering tick

The clock on the wall has a stuttering tick,

a second-hand limp through the glass.

The air in this lobby is heavy and thick

while I watch all the lucky ones pass.

I’m the only one left in a hard plastic chair

that is bolted right into the floor.

I promised I’d wait and I’m still sitting there

with my eyes on the glass of the door.

Twenty more minutes is what I tell the air,

though the thirty before it were wasted.

It isn't devotion, it’s just a despair

that’s the bitterest thing I have tasted.