Room 202 Poem by robin DeWalt

Every day at half past three
Room 202 waits for me
a daughter's mid-life chore.

I count my breaths from one to ten
smooth my skirt and coward yen
to run back out the door.

It's not the way she's looking up
but how she pokes the jello cup
with tines of plastic fork.

I cast my eyes to motes of dust
waltzing on the sunbeam's thrust
to ease my inner torque.

My words are merely token gifts
to calm the waters when they drift
far from safe lit shores.

At five oh one I take my leave
unhook her fingers from my sleeve
and walk wet-freckled floor.