Sonnet from the Waiting Room

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Sonnet from the Waiting Room


At least the waiting room has magazines.

            Though not the kind I’d label interesting, 

they’re loud and bright enough take my mind 

            away, if momentarily, from what’s inside,

so I can’t complain. He calls me back and asks

            about my symptoms, nodding as he clacks

his practiced judgement on the keys, and says 

            he’s treated this before and even has 

the fix on hand. On promising return 

            he leaves me stranded in the spinning room

with walls of mottled green, and it was 90

            minutes tops, in hindsight, but when the in

is begging out, each minute seems a year, 

            and every second asks, but are you sure?

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