The fluorescent tube above the water tank

The fluorescent tube above the water tank

has a tremor that I feel behind my eyes.

The air is scrubbed and antiseptic-blank,

a place where every sudden movement lies.

A vending machine cup sits on the floor,

leaving a ring of brown on the white tile.

I watch the heavy swinging of the door,

counting the seconds of a sterile while.

The magazines are three years out of date,

their covers curled into a damp, gray wave.

I’m learning how to sit and how to wait

in the quiet, bright precursor to the grave.