Escorted to a room, told, “Please wait here.”
“Tomorrow” promised at our meeting place.
Two days elapsed, impatience turned to fear.
No note, no call, you’re gone without a trace.
Because there are no office chairs I pace
in long and curvy paths that overlap.
Each step becomes a wrinkle on my face
until my visage forms a worry map.
I pause but then my toes begin to tap
a tattoo in the silent, sullen room.
The sudden voice is like a thunderclap:
it asks me, “What’s the name?” I’m filled with doom.
Report submitted. Must it look so thin?
Was that the last? When did the end begin?