Waiting Room
The hospital waiting room can swallow a person. Or a person can allow the light and air of reality into the waiting.
Waiting Room
We sit, stiff, in cushioned chairs,
inhale stale and dusky air,
minds throbbing with the news
Specter-words float sharp corners
of the room, misty and mute
in gloom that steeps the hours
Sun slashes a crack through sashes
cloaking the window, imprinting
rectangle glare on the foot-weary floor
A shadow grid stamps invading light,
caging radiance in questions—
dividing warmth, severing shine
Dust flecks glide, descending
a fractured beam, indifferent
to time and its sting
I lift a trembling hand and slip
into a glove of gleam; my fingertip
heats, pulsing fire through my fear
I rise and push velvet curtains wide,
thrust the doors ajar
to let air’s glow breathe inside
and swallow up the fog from the room.
Lovely!