Waiting Room by Mai Ly Hagan (17, Connecticut)*

​The etchings on the sloped ceiling feel a little lower today, 
they wade above, looming like a dejected tapestry―  
shrouding me, from whatever waits beyond the two doors. 
I hear the first click, then wood sliding against a dusty carpet, 
a second click, then the shadow stretches across a mahogany hallway. 

But what if I stayed in the waiting room, 
under the looming tapestry, and the ornate carpet, 
the smell of lavender masking an antique musk, 
the buzz of a building well-lived in, 
and the creaks from below and above.

---

For if I stayed, 
if I stayed, 
I could wait forever
under the etching on the ceiling, 
and the clicking of the seat.