Next by P.A.Levy

I am not a silent poet

The dog-eared hospital waiting
area, patiently, slowly
filled up with suspicions of not knowing
whittled out of the very fibres and cells
of appointment cards.

So we wait.  On fractured chairs
in a disinfected air, an illness-
green colour scheme reflects
the pallor of our despondency in
solicitude.  Nurses hastily propel
themselves on clockwork adrenaline.
The friction of their uniforms
a shuffling deck of cards to be dealt.

Still we wait.  Poker faced, wondering
if the chips are down.
Drowning in an ultrasound hubbub
of conversations, not thinking of oxygen
but breathing.  One eye on the wall clock,
the other scanning the receptionist.
Time taking the pulse of the N.H.S.,
waiting for a name to be pronounced.

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