The waiting room

 I thought up this poem yesterday while visiting my father who is recovering from a successful kidney transplant that he had a few days ago. This poem expresses the feelings I had while waiting for my mother to finish speaking with him. I thank God, to who all glory is due, in giving our family grace and a true miracle:

The waiting room

 In this hospital venue, the

air hangs sanitized like a

swab of antiseptic plugged

in one’s nose.

The bare walls lie

inanimate, unspoken and white —

the color of purity, of hygiene…

of uncertainty.

And in this room there are seated

foreboding-filled

visitors.

They monitor the hall to ICU and

gaze up (perhaps suddenly religious)

at the single-lighted ceiling.

Their well-read novels provide

exiguous distraction;

the single restroom,

a brief respite from the

anxiousness gnawing like a rat inside.

Outside the hall comes alive.

Wheeled stretchers screech

past with hypnopompic patients,

the shoes of nurses, doctors and

blue-robed surgeons clop-clop

on the marbled floor.

Then come the mobile updates.

Fingers tear at loose hair and faces

carved with worry-lines.

Relief-full sighs are released,

heads collapse into sweaty hands.

 To the panoptic viewer, this room’s sundry

emotions may resemble some silent

T.V. drama,unscripted precisely for

 mass amusement.

But for those who are

inside it is a holding-cell

of the unknown, playing field in the

game of waiting.

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