Friday poem

This one was written in a surgical waiting room. I was struck by the little square coaster-pagers that they gave waiting family members, like those you’d get at a restaurant to alert you to your table being ready.

Waiting Room

Her clothes in
a clear plastic bag
at his side.
He’s been given a pager,
as if waiting for
a restaurant table.
But it is she
upon the table.
He watches for the
little lights, listens
for his name to be called,
to learn whether
he is still in a party of two.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s