Grid Work and Gravity

The kid in the corner is rhythmic, at least,

kicking the plastic chair leg like a slow pulse.

I don't want to see the mother's eyes,

so I keep my chin tilted back

until my neck starts to protest.

There is a water stain above the vending machine.

A jagged, tea-colored archipelago

with coastlines that look like a country

I hope I’m never forced to inhabit.

The fluorescent light hums in the bone of my jaw.

It’s a flat, industrial kind of patience,

watching the dust motes drift

toward that one cracked tile in the corner

where the shadow is most honest.