In the waiting room
the woman two seats from me
is regaling her neighbour
with her husband’s stroke
in detail.
We others
sit mute, unmoving,
our eyes-front gazes locked
in waiting-room magazines,
trying not to hear.
Small mundane horrors
are imparted with laughter
and loudly so we all
get, willy nilly,
the masked pain.
Left her job.
Has too little time.
He can’t use his left arm,
and during conversations
he’ll just walk away.
She’s the one sitting
in this waiting room in need
of medical treatment, yet
brings herself present
obliquely.
NaPoWriMo Day 7
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