The Waiting Room

by Frankie Lara

THE WAITING ROOM

I felt it the whole ride there.

Throbbing, sickening abdominal pain.

I dragged my feet through hospital doors,

hoping for nurses,

prepping me, soothing me, drugging me.

Instead there was a finger pointed,

down the hall, to the left.

To a cold uncomfortable chair,

to an ambience of coughs, sneezes, and moans.

A man walked in, blood staining his chest.

He sat by me, still bleeding, still in pain.

This is where the poor come, my mother said,

and wait an eternity.

I will feel that moment forever,

the shift in weight of inequality.

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