He sits across the room,

Newspaper outstretched 

Upon polyester knits,

With tortoise shell specs.


At eight o'clock in the morning,

I am not enthralled with the wait,

Receptionist makes her way 

Out to call someone

Every twenty minutes,

In between muffled, gossipy

Tokens of the weekend's dramas, 

And sips from a Starbucks mug,

Freshly brewed coffee.


The smell pervades

Even the waiting area,

And titillates my senses

As I recall the cup I missed

To make my appointment.


His eyes lift,

To see above 

The frame of his bifocal,

Catching a glimpse 

Of the clock that hangs

Above where I am sitting,

And I squirm ever-so-slightly,

Riding on the hinges 

Of his disgust.


My cellphone rings,

I ignore the call.



3:19 AM 6/25/2013 ©



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