Waiting Room

Pastel walls.
Outdated magazines.
A quiet, powerful energy of fear.
Tick.
Tock.
Buzzing of telephones.
Quiet murmuring of receptionists.
Glass windows.
Tick.
Tock.
Fumble with a book.
Listen to music.
Wonder about why she is here. Or him.
Tick
Tock.
Daytime TV, let’s find out if he’s the real father.
Quick bathroom breaks.
Lukewarm water.
Tick.
Tock.
What if scenarios play out in your head.
Tears in the corner of your eyes.
Wondering.
Tick.
Tock.
How much longer.
Startled by every movement.
Knees bump with the person beside you.
Tick.
Tock.
You wish you were anywhere else.
Ponder your to-do list.
Pray even though you don’t pray.
Tick.
Tock.
Jump as the doctor enters the room.
Take a sharp breath in.
Attempt to read their face.
Tick.
Tock.
Good news? Bad News?
Invitation into a family room.
Holding breath.
Tick.
Tock.
She’s alive.
She’s alive.
She’s alive.