The Bygone Room

phalaenopsis — the moth orchid

a little light slips through the blinds,

paints zebra stripes over the Walmart orchids

and there people sit, glossy pages flip-crinkling

a big video screen rolls waves of infinite blue

onto a silent digital beach before a copyright-free horizon

just who is contagious and what do they have

so tightly packed in this suspect air — such risky air —

what in the world are we doing here?

the sick come and go, touching all the doorknobs,

not happy out or in, no clue of fate, no sell-by date

all we ever really do in that room

is wait