The Lab Results

The magazine on my lap is three years old,

full of diets and houses I’ll never afford.

The air in this lobby is clinical, cold,

and I’m bored in a way that I shouldn't be bored.

My phone gives a shudder against the hard chair,

a plastic vibration that rattles my hip.

I scramble to grab it, a ghost of a prayer

starting to form on the edge of my lip.

But it’s only a coupon for chicken or soap,

a digital shout from a store down the street.

I’m burning through minutes and trading in hope

while the nurse checks a chart and the tile meets my feet.