The Waiting Room

By, Stuart Platt

Uncertain, walls stare blankly back into on lookers eyes
Thoughts reel through each mind leaving a trail of fear in its wake
Lead hearts await news ranging from mild to life shattering
The clock ticks away as if to prophesy some foreboding demise
Cold sterile greetings of employed cronies one’s only reassurance
Nervous gestures, worried glances, pointless busy-work are these our comfort
We throw away millions of dollars of our hard earned income
Only to pay some worthless quack to give us drugs and send us home
Our own personal professionally trained drug dealers
The television drags on in a monotonous attempt to distract our apprehension
As if to say, “bright colors and sounds will calm your fears!”
A generation so addicted to noise we drown out all emotion
Other evidences of our addictions sit affront of me in cylinder
We use temporary stimulation to ease our permanent problems
What are we waiting for…