Waiting rooms

There’s a brown stain on the ceiling,

It looks like: Micky Mouse’s ears, two round bread buns, a twin sun set in sepia and tannin.

One leg sling over the other beats out the passage of time;

One second – two seconds – three.

I count and recount grey ceiling tiles, burgundy chairs, well-meaning pamphlets –

‘My life, my family, my world’.

At each footstep along the mid-blue corridor

My head snaps up

Pulse racing a little faster

Is it – is it him?

And what are they doing in there?

In that room beyond the brown double doors,

Whose windows are reinforced with metal grids,

Is he like a test subject? Electrodes wired to his head,

Chestnut curls ruffled, disarrayed.

Is he scared?

I am.

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