In this waiting room I sit
old eyes are red from lack of sleep
hospital chair don't ever fit
wall clock's hands just barely creep

Stomach wanting to vent gas
as it rebels from vending food
but I refuse to let it pass
unlike some here in this brood

All the magazines areold
the newest May of oh eleven
one has even grown some mold
this place is near reverse of heaven

The walls are institution green
adorned by bland and cheap-framed art
tled floors are dull and lacking sheen
my soul insists that I depart

But I remain, I'm duty bound
though the wait has been too long
I'd prefer to be following a hound
and listening to its plaintive song

I feel the stubble on my face
and catcg the whiff of my own smell
mixed with those in this closed space
but it's the waiting which is hell

Doctors come and nurses go
bearing news to strangers near
hours pass and tensions grow
shall I be the last to hear?

At last a surgeon dressed in green
arrives and scans near empty room
(he looks to be about sixteen)
doed he bring news of joy or doom?