Sitting and worrying in the waiting room.
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Dying in the Waiting Room

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My appointment’s scheduled for 10:30.
Two hours later I’m quite squirmy.
I’m worried about my test results.
The lack of response is an insult.

Really, this is so distressing,
not surprised that I am stressing.
“You’re next,” someone said three times.
While I’m dying on the vine.

The cohorts in the waiting room
are howling at the Family Feud.
I feel like screaming out “Shut up!”
Meanwhile, the noise does not let up.

Everyone has gone to lunch,
but I have nothing here to munch.
I’m just sitting, bored to death,
Dehydrating. My last breath?

It’s unacceptable, I think.
This place has pushed me to the brink.
I read my book to pass the time.
Now reduced to writing rhyme.

What? Is this a senior center?
They laugh and shout, but I surrender!
One woman snoring at 100 decibels.
They move like molasses — I’m in Hell!

Wait! Is my name being called?
My wait — so long and I’m appalled.
All this time I’m sitting here.
Now the news; I’m full of fear.

A procedure he says, “It’s no big deal,”
“Yes, but I’m still worried,” I squeal.
“It’s all routine. You’ll be just fine.”
“Easy for you to say,” I whine.

“After the procedure,
I will need to see ya.
Come back in 30 days,” he explains.
“I’ll start waiting now!” I complain.

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Read more by Holli Friedland.

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