In a Waiting Room

 

The frames are all the same.
That is what struck me.
As I turned my mind from the crisp
new copy of a clockwork orange
that I was halfway through
Sitting on the back seat of my car
I thought I’d try and read it while I waited

It’ll be alright

All of the frames. Notices to clean
Hands,
Or medical insurance,
Hanging
Dead straight.

It’ll be fine

I studied the play     set in front of me
The garish colours that burst in phosphorescent … noise.
Offensive
In the dim and paling light
The yellow and blue fish crudely coloured in crayon.

It’ll be ok

And the man to my left
That bounced and bounced his
restless knees up down up down,
like tapping on my eyes.

But back to the frames,
Yes they all were silver and square
And featureless,
Like the dull lavender wallpaper

And the sterile smell of plastic
That I’ve known before
As a child,
In the building where my mother
stayed the night,
and I had my first mocha
From the machine behind me,     had it moved?

No it’s fine

And the nurse that came in to clean
Didn’t bring reassurance,
Only scissors in her chest pocket
That reminded me of cutting.

And the frantic hands around me
begin to infect my own,
And my knees start to shake
At the thought of the handle on the door
Behind me

Turning my mind away from the thing
That brought us here,
While you were not next to me
And I waited for news.
— Montekin Ffoulke, October 2016.

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