My poem, The Waiting Area, was published in The Soliloquist Magazine.
The drive to the hospital
after four hours sleep
on the deserted freeway
at three AM.
The waiting area.
The two of us
and the security guard
at his station.
So quiet, we hear
the red second hand
of the white clock
on the beige wall
make the faint sound
of a leaky faucet dripping
into a bucket;
the black minute hands
folding and unfolding
in gradual somersaults.
No good news or bad news.
As light crawls through the windows
we watch
the world awaken
and we wait.
Leave a Reply