The appointment shouldn’t be long.
so I come with no restraint.
it smells like hospital. sour and muted.
the traffic of automatic doors is heavy this week, and I feel the draft raise bumps on my sore legs.
the upholstered chairs absorb the sweat on my palms.
as I wait for miles and miles: the minutes, counted on a watch minutes, dragging their feet.
the chairs are orange.
rotting pumpkin orange.
heavy new pennies in my waiting palms by the cashier orange.
the kind of orange that makes impatience feel like a necessity, positivity:
I let the waiting room jazz slip out of my consciousnessconscious and wander into the possibility of the news.
good news, bad news, no news.
What news means for tonight. for graduation. for her room.
mom walks out 12 swollen minutes later.
I decide that waiting,
is like swimming with
gets heavier the further it