The Waiting Room

The aching arms of the creaking clock tick, tock, tick, tock,
Agonising drag
like a wave ripping itself from the sand.
‘It’s a long wait,’ they said,
As if I didn’t know.

Fidgeting feet beat on the dirty carpet,
choking clouds billow
and the air is thick with toxic tension.
People titter and tut,
Drowning out the screams of tick, tock, tick, tock.
The next one is summoned,
The rest of us sigh,
And I see an old man,
A glassy tear dribbling down his cheek
catching itself in the crevices of his life,
Slowly falling into the dust.

Am I to be next?
At least I would know.
A spotlight strikes me,
Blinding, disorientating, invigorating,
Petrifying.
But, do I ever want to know?

He grazes my leg as he rises to leave,
Kissing the footprints of all those before him.
And so I stay among the sneers of the clock,
Remaining, waiting here.