The Waiting Room

A chair of worn out

blue material.

It could never be mistaken

for something imperial.

Many a posterior

has rested here,

struggling to

control their fear.

A white coated woman

takes your name.

You sit down

to study a picture frame.

The man opposite

looks at the floor

and every now and then

sneaks a peek at the door.

A table with magazines

is in between.

The woman beside

is reading about the Queen.

The door opens

and your name is called.

Wouldn’t you know

now it doesn’t hurt at all.