The waiting room
by Lee Nash

The receptionist shows me where to go:

a room suffused with soft light –
one entire wall made of glass bricks.

Occasional chairs upholstered in
shimmering silver fabric;
white imitation leather armchairs.

This is where you wait

not for the dentist/
radiologist/gynecologist

not for the plumber to call

but
for the womb to receive
for teeth to cut, teeth to close.

Skin to heal. Skin to rot.

Children to learn the rules of the road.
For them to leave. Return. Or not.

For love, its open season.
An answer.

Other people are waiting too.
For the heart to forgive.
To go home. Wherever that is.

There are magazines to read while you’re
waiting

most times a clock –
the second hand creeping round it
like an insect searching for food.

It is all always waiting; life is this vast waiting room –

that’s why when she said to me
The waiting room is over there,
I smiled, instinctively obeyed.
 

Forums: 
New Poems