as i sat on baby blue
with my feet dangling above concrete that needed to be cleaned.
it stopped. suddenly.
and so it will remain, i suppose.
longing for obtuse things.
splayed wide, aching.
dropping thick red splats wherever it goes
and in parking lots
and down highways and paths lined with brush
– a crumb trail meant for only one.
leading back to this wound that will either
be rubbed with salt
stitched with cautious hands.
but this waiting room is empty.
the tables don’t feature magazines
or televisions displaying medical speak.
no, there is only room for one
as the clock ticks onward
but time stands still.