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