Sitting in a dull room
With a form and a phone,
Listening to the photo copier’s drone,
We could be refugees from Syria
Or the rabbits in Narnia
Awaiting an audience with the queen,
Drenched in secret dreams,
Hypnotized by the words on a screen.
Get up ticket number eight
And go to counter number thirteen.
Gatekeepers and guards growl
At the crying infant and her nervous mother,
The silver lining in their official caps
Reflecting the artificial halogen lights
And sealing it with authority.
Power in this waiting room resides
In badges and headgear.
All must submit and keep voices down
Lest they should become the prey.
The next available appointment is
More than six months away.
Good things come to those who wait,
Says a cheeky poster on the wall,
Between one ad selling mortgages
And another promising a yoga fit body.
I look around at tired faces,
At the young boy in leg braces,
And wonder if there is enough good
In this world for everyone.
We are standing behind the yellow line.
Too many of us are waiting.