~~ Waiting Room ~~

Outside, a train somewhere hammering its tracks,
as I look back the trains coming and going,
left me remembering well
by that waiting room wall
one day waking up
in a country ruled by me.
My road-rage face,
strategic tears and apologies always,
like artificial snow.
Late, breathless and red-faced as ever.
Taking the world warmly by the throat.
All the way….

A young woman, ragged, pale, and with wide teasing eyes,
A youth, muffled, silent, and with strained seeking eyes,
Behind others
It was out of the usual rhythm
Their meeting was sparse and incoherent
Consisting of muffled laughter
And broken conversations.
After the honeymoon…

An old woman, coughing and cold and crouching,
A man, sullen and unaware,
And my mute self, we are gathered.
Without are winds, wild, and a loud hissing rain.
In the still warmth, we are gathered.

The waiting room was full of hush,
Baggage and overcoats, lamps and magazines.
I waited and read the National Geographic
and carefully studied the photographs:
the inside of a volcano, black, and full of ashes;
then it was spilling over in rivulets of fire.
A dead man slung on a pole "Long Pig," the caption said.
Babies with pointed heads,
naked women with necks wound round and round with wire.
I read it right straight through. I was too shy to stop.
And then I looked at the cover:
the yellow margins, the date.
Suddenly, from inside, came a moan of pain
not very loud or long. I wasn't at all surprised;
even then I knew I was a foolish, timid woman.
I might have been embarrassed, but wasn't.
What took me completely by surprise
was that it was me: my voice, in my mouth.
Without thinking at all.
I was failing, falling,
My eyes glued to the cover
of the National Geographic,
February, 1998.

Our eyes are on the departure board. . . .
The hour glides. . . .
We wait for the red flame to tell our tale, to speak our need,
And the hour glides. And suddenly it groans:
“Men, women, sullen and unaware!
I gave you
Myself.
I waited.
Now time for you to go"
And the hour dies…

And list of people, all who left in the rain
Without flushing the toilet; see themselves across that room
Full of cheap polyester suits, as if
Some small conformist waiting to be born.

Now the last thing I want is to take a train for anywhere!
No, I've not the slightest longing for the life I've left....
Only fear of the emptiness before me.
If I had the energy to work myself to death
How gladly would I face death!
But waiting, simply waiting...
With no desire to act, yet a loathing of inaction.
I fear the vacuum, and no desire to fill it.
It’s just like sitting in an empty waiting room
In a railway station on a branch line,
After the last train, after all the other passengers
Have left, and the booking office is closed.
And the porters have gone.
What am I waiting for...
In the cold and empty room before an empty grate....??