The Waiting Room

The Waiting Room The April weather shifted high to low, Exposing those early clout casters To the concluding bite of winter; Footsteps full of foreboding Trudge their last legs up the inclined driveway To the Doctor’s old house. A hotchpotch of chairs and wooden benches Cling to the borders of the waiting room A ballroom of romance for the sick. In varying degrees of ill-health A gamut of the townspeople Chorus a cacophony of coughs Sniffling and wheezing feverishly, While the readers’ digest stale stories From the well-thumbed publications. Eyes darting around the room Surveying the afflicted to kill the time Conjecture at the probable cause and severity; Childlike comparisons to ones’ own condition. A new mother fails to stifle a yawn Spreading contagion to the assembled Her flushed snoozing baby Unaware of her blaming chatter. Life-weary pensioner invited to the inner sanctum Chilled to the bone, sciatica stricken, Accepts the decree of the medic Without question or comment. His framed degree, long faded, Enough to stifle her to silence His stethoscope, as a Priests garb To her, underpinning his status. Two codgers still await their summons More regularly neighbours at the bar Boisterously chatting across the room For the oblivious benefit of the throng; Socialising symptoms best supressed Public bravado before their private hearing, Selective honesty, the order of the day. Quiet couple with obviously hidden issue Whisper conspiratorially in the half lit room Embracing the background murmur And the dimness, aid to their privacy. Vice-Captain of the junior team, Fit, and embarrassed at his minor disorder Conjures up exaggerated “near death” vocabulary For future reportage to the team His shame cajoled into the ether By his twisting of the physicians’ imagined words. And all the while the waiting room remains Constant, a silent witness to all ills.