In the waiting room I am
the only one
writing a poem, but
especially on an iPhone.
This is because everyone else
is old and dull and fat,
and I hope I don’t sound as
unkind to you as I do when I say that
but it’s true.
It makes me feel no better ten minutes later,
the young man who comes in on a walker
accompanied by his mother at the counter.
She pays. I know that look on her face.
There are twenty seats open here,
at least –
but a lumbering senior sporting a blue
takes the one right next to me.
At first, I shuffle claustrophobically,
as he elbows out the crossword page,
but then it crosses my mind:
What if I am young and blonde,
and look like his long-gone wife at my age?
What if it’s only me he gets to sit next to today?
What if he doesn’t have any sisters left,
or that new person to text,
or the Snapchat app to make him laugh after the fact?
Or what if he just ends up needing to know
the name of the Count in Figaro, or
the capitol city of Idaho?
I settle back, and say “hello” to my fellow
Because I may be all he’s got.