In the Waiting Room - James Markels
Heavy hands cradle
His head, bleeding tears
That trickle quickly
To the corners of his mouth.
His fingers flex, then tense,
Then pluck nervously
At his frayed hair's ends.
Alone with white tiles
Echoing hollow footsteps
Through sterile walls
Of painful waiting.
Indifferent figures slide by
Through his blurry fingers
And whisper softly to
Themselves. His shoulders
Shake and shudder as
Anger slides through his
Veins. It was not his fault.
What could he have done?
His hands weaken, and the
Feeling subsides helplessly.
He wishes his wife
Were here, by his side,
To hold his hand
And help his son.
He stares at
His cracked leather shoes
That try to comfort
But only remind him
Where he is.