Counting the Exits

In every room I count the exits, measure the windows, choose the outside chair. My body keeps minutes no clock has announced. A cup touches a saucer. Someone laughs too suddenly. My shoulders answer first. I tell them: not yet. I place both feet inside my shoes. I name the blue wall, the warm cup, the rain beginning. No miracle follows. The room stays a room. The door stays available. I take one slower breath, then one I do not grade. Across the table, my friend keeps talking about an ordinary Tuesday. I listen to Tuesday and let the door remain a door.