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?