The Waiting Game

Whispers hiss half-heartedly round a room
of pastel coloured walls hung with posters.
Legends that would prefer to stay unknown
quiver before eyes that cannot avoid

warning messages of catastrophe,
whilst they wilfully evade other wide
eyed reflections of unreasoned panic.
Silent lapses descend upon the scene

like rain on a dark winter afternoon.
Antiseptic odours waft from side rooms,
starched nurses walk in and out, back and forth,
call a name and disappear once again.

A telephone rings, giggles echo along
sterile corridors accompanied by
the noisy clickity clack of brisk heels,
and the wait continues to grate on nerves

already stretched tight, taut as guitar strings.
Time trickles tiredly forward like a
river frustrated by a beaver built
dam, it halts its journey to the sea, then

puddles into a lake of lethargy.
Until abruptly my name is called and
I stand, sleepwalk toward the procedure
that has haunted my nightmares long enough.

Procedure over, dignity lost, I
leave the room in a trance like state of mind,
still none the wiser and destined to wait
a week for an answer I need to hear.