**Waiting Room in Chrome**
The walls hum softly, like microwaves
daydreaming of their past lives
as steel, blank, obedient. In the vending machine,
a hologram of desire sparkles between
options A3 and D7—
all salt, no salvation.
Outside, a bus sighs over wet gravel
as if remembering something important
about lithium hearts or evening classes
in semiotics. The woman across from me
types with unbroken ceremony into
a device cradle-shaped, blue-lit from within,
like a shrine to missed connections.
We are all here for different reasons:
a chipped molar, a reinstalled password,
the soft panic of disappearing likes.
From the ceiling drips a Bach loop, repeating
until beauty curdles. Somewhere under the linoleum,
history paces in its slippers.
The receptionist wears a smile
so mechanically tender, I want to
apologize for my name.
And then
a voice calls out a number that no one recognizes.
**—The Clergyman**