Sitting in the waiting room
makes me wish for
privacy booths
Where I don’t have to pretend
to be idly passing the time
instead of waiting
with held, stilted breath
to find out if I’m a goner
Where I don’t have to engage
in furtive smiles of pity
or faux understanding
and be subjected to
out of date, tattered magazines
Give me a curtain I can draw
and a a quiet spot
blocking out diffused mood lighting
and pop songs turned elevator music
Waiting for the unknown is hard enough
without it being such a public display
My life’s about to change
I can’t sit here any longer
and pretend its another Tuesday
The Word Rummager 