Wednesday, December 16, 2015

waiting...dripping time/hospital syrup

the waiting
dripping in time
like watching the deep
yellow tar of a smoker
sliding slowly down
the wallpaper
much time 
tied up
like molasses

the sun burns in 
through the clearly 
cleaned window
searing fancy maple chairs
and easily washable 
vinyl couch cushions
printed to look like fabric
inviting at first glance
and fly traps
after an hour
the prey stuck
and waiting
to be devoured
the sweet reprieve
to the endlessness

watching as the 
occasional head popping
of many to the same 
cell phone ringer
sporatically springing forth
from the corners of the

some sit and work
knowing their 
loved ones
will be o.k.
some seem much
more concerned
and look up 
with wide eyes
each time the columbian
answers her phone
'meant to grab a coffee'
'sharon went where on vacation?'
and sometimes 
what sounds
like an important set
of numbers
or updates as
the weary sitter's waiting
like cold molasses but it's hot...
blazing sunlight 
reading papers
or noisily and nervously
crinkling the mint wrapper
long after the sugar
has gone

one late comer,
unconcerned son
sitting next to 
his weepy eyed
talking fast and
keeping him on the ropes as
he tries to keep
his composure
but after a while
it worked
as a dam of
did its job
to quiet the beast
of his imagination

the coffee maker
has stopped 
gurgling hours ago
and I watch janitors
dance by
a matter if fact ballet
of the daily grind
amid the biggest days
for some here
laying around the room
and the whispers of hope
aming the whispers 
of doom

There have been no 
tears yet
from the side room of 
seems like a good day
but the sun burns in
and the time still dripping
like a lollipop
left on a dash
of a black car
in the sun

we are here
among the lower concerns
waiting to visit
after a long but
somewhat easy thing
thankful i'm not the 
lady to my right
they've spoken to her
than the others
not quite touch and go
hands crossed 
in moments
prayers perhaps
or just nervous 
or maybe memories 
to stay her

we are all here in limbo
like one soul
any of us will need
to endure a tragedy
for any one here
the breathing room
the lung of the hospital
the waiting room
were, it is so that
we will all be required
together to ride the waves
the wailing widow
would be also be our sister
the brother to a younger
one, that doesn't pull through
this burning room
the leaning card house
the tinderpile by the
strike-anywhere matches
or maybe the long dry wasteleand to walk out of the desert,
we are somehow here
one humanity
one people
in this iron lung
in the blue wing
of this hospital
a place to be together
a kind word or pleasantry
a non personal question
that might spark a short
edges if humanity
that seldom connect
or overlap
an interesting
place to find
one of those rare 
and random
and the small politennesses,
acts of kindness
that sometimes seem lost in this
modern mode
of existence;
but here
no race
no religion
just worry and boredom
tossed in a hot pot
to simmer down
into a gooey weariness
of humankind
spread out on the floor
like syrup
waiting to
from the
burning sun
and the vinyl furnature

and will it end?
for me, yes
but less for the 
columbian receptionist
with the tired limp
her name, maria
calling out news and names
names with updates

and less yet will it end 
for the room,
the burning room
will be here 
much longer
slowly boiling down
the worried people
into a human syrup
for a brief moment
each day...
and this terrible time
just dripping away...

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