writing poetry in the waiting room
worn seats in lines 
bland taupe comfortless
oblivious 
to the pain and discomfort 
of others
I wait for my child’s return
alone in a quiet corner
somewhere a doctor watches 
over them
does what I cannot do
heal, find answers or 
more questions
all I can do is wait 
to see what will unfold
within the walls 
and pray 
the discharge may bring
nothing but relief
a familiar bed 
a hot meal
fresh clothes
a cup of tea
all of which I long for
sitting with the stench
of vomit 
and creeping malaise 
every emergency room
the same
those who vomit blood
sit next to the short of breath
the anxious mothers
daughters, fathers and brothers 
a nurse washes spittle 
from the window around her desk
a woman with a broken foot
and a scorpion tattoo on her neck 
swears at the wait time
a ninth ambulance rolls in
and we wait together
under the silent flashes
of the televisions 
hanging on wall
high and out of reach