Porcelain Hell

Every time I wind

up back here I

end up wondering–

how much of my life has been spent in this

transitory space–

–this place you’re not meant to

linger– this

sometimes sanctuary

caught between “what are you doing here” and

“are you okay?”

No–

I cannot be the only one

here, trapped between the dimensions where

most people work and play, live and rest, left

alone to remain in this space where

others only seem to pass through, their

footsteps echoing into nothing until

there is only me

still here,

still here.

Forgive me for asking, but

how long have you been here?

At this bus stop? Behind the convenience store counter?

Under the awning at the bank

waiting for the rain to pass?

Are you hiding in the locker rooms

or do you need that extra moment of peace before you break

the surface of the water?

Do the isles in the library

feel safer to you,

or are you stuck here

turning the endless cans to face out

trapped by the fluorescents?

I can’t help but imagine

how many of us there really are–

with our knees pressed against our temples, taking

cover, or breathing, or counting the time

away in these shelter

prisons that were only ever meant to be temporary–

as I try to convince myself to move

away from the cold tiles

of the bathroom floor.