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…
And in this room there are seated
They monitor the hall to ICU and
gaze up (perhaps suddenly religious)
at the single-lighted ceiling.
Their well-read novels provide
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
But for those who are
inside it is a holding-cell
of the unknown, playing field in the
game of waiting.