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
