we sit
side by side, or across from one
another
with our quiet ailments.
we sift through
the magazines
on the table.
it's not quite our time
to go in
and spill our troubles
for a swift fifty minutes.
some twitch, some sneeze,
some wrap their arms
around themselves.
others stare off into a place
where only they can see.
everyone looks as if
they're on the verge of
tears, or a breakdown.
tapping their feet.
keeping a beat to a
drummer only they hear.
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