Waiting

 

Time passes quite slowly

As everyone sits, trying to be patient

Most read, others fiddle with phones

One young one plays with a hand-held game

My son listens to his ipod, I write

 

Aged from five to 65

We sit on mismatched brown wooden chairs

Set against a very busy floral patterned carpet

“Flick, flick” reply the thumbed pages

As they waft barely audible music

 

There is an air of anticipation

As we all look up

After the sound of a magazine

Heavily flopping onto a table

“Will everything be alright? “Are things Stable?”

 

The long light relentlessly hums,

There’s a wavy thin-striped blind

And the beat of a clock

From a not so distant fire place

This was once a house – another is called

 

More creaks and lots of nervous repositioning

Just being here causes coughs, sneezes and wheezes

Eyes right as the door handle slowly turns

“Mr White!” my name is called

I get up and reluctantly leave my shifty clan