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
