seems I am always waiting in another’s space:
doctor, dentist, surgeon, realtor, attorney, supervisor, politician
more terrorizing than the last.
always a little colder
here in the waiting room,
why am I always sitting
under the iceburning
waiting for the answer:
am I or not?
is it or not?
will he or not?
why can’t the delay be a little warmer
while I enumerate, reiterate, and recite the questions
or the answers?
will there be incisions, insights?
my brain sears
it’s not a trait so specific to humans.
I have peeked through the kitchen window
at my rescued terrier
my every sound and movement.
his eyes seeking as if processing questions, too.
deciphering patterns of
which series of steps
brings snacks, walks, curses, pats
outside The Waiting Room
in my own little sanctuary
on sickly springgrass
flanked by white dog
black cat paws.
sparring over the warmest spot.
skinsoaking away a bitter winter memory.
I wait for doctors’ phone calls.
a sharp scent of snow on a snapping wind
causes the dog to lift his nose
stare meaningfully toward me.
soft whimpered groans slip from both of us.
while gods toggle skies.
The scalding Colorado sky
cirrusshifts for sleet.
can we never
stop listening for the other shoe?
why can’t the room be a little larger
a little less crowded
with fewer fevered auras.
My own autumn body
rooM for a
. …Waiting game.