four chairs down.

we're two strangers
sitting together in
this room of cold
metal – scented warm
vanilla.

he lounges back in the hard
plastic chair, arms resting
together.

blue lines travel beneath his
skin like tendrils, gaze fixated
beyond a curtain of white blinds.
at least 30.

crosses one ankle
over his knee – uncrosses it;
nevermind.

fidgets,
his khaki's ride up his thighs.

touches naked fingertips to
some type of key-chain hooked to
a belt-loop and faintly smiles at a small image.

temporary.