The Waiting Room


She sits watching light

slice underneath the marigolds,

and wonders what the weather

is in Australia, and whether she'll

ever get there someday. Four

lane backup on the interstate before

arriving, and now she's late for her

appointment, but they may still fit

her in, which she doesn't feel is

necessary. She'd rather have gone

home. But doctors never work on

a writers schedule, so she wades

through the stale magazine rack, hides

her purse under the chair, and I

am there, seeing how she thumbs

through mindlessly; diet articles

and fitness fixes, each splash of

fiction toward the human form. And

she's partial to the moon, yet I

don't know this, in her purple

fingernail world, I am just an

occupied chair, a face in the

monotony of meetings, just missed

by the seperation of seven seats.