Random Acts of Poetry

Waiting Room

We sat in fixed positions,
he and I

so that we wouldn't disappear.
Our day had fled through the window.

This waiting had the quality of enamel,
like a souvenir plate spinning in place.

Most of the furniture was vacant
and the radiator spat in the corner.

The chair had a frayed edge,
and the receptionist used bad grammar;

she had a problem with her larynx.
I felt a sensitivity

to her wrenched voice,
as she gargled into the phone.

Then my leg fell asleep.
So I made ambitious circles

with my feet
like a nervous orangutan

while the man across from me
pretended to be blind.

I was inclined to disturb him,
ask what was so fascinating

about his year-old Newsweek.
It might have inspired

a ping-ponging argument
to smash the tedium

of that afternoon room.
But the dull lines of his face

revealed no devilry,
not a single urge

to step forward
though the door of living

until his name was called.