Ode to the Waiting Room – Poem

The old man in the brown, buttery leather chair’s 
eyeglasses are fogging up, but his eyes remain 
closed as he listens to the sound machine’s bird calls

I give him a nod for showing up—my father hasn’t
People come in and out, the doors shutting tightly
behind them. I memorize their faces until my short-

term memory empties them, but the old man remains
as he sits back, keeping his eyes closed. His name
is called, and I’m stuck waiting alone.

I hope you enjoyed this super short piece! I actually found it when looking through some poems I wrote over a year ago, and it’s crazy to see the differences in my writing– the different topics I was drawing inspiration from, the different forms and styles, etc. I like this little piece, but I definitely am proud of the positive progress I’ve made with my writing since writing this. Please feel free to leave feedback and writing challenges in the comments. Stay safe and healthy out there.

Brooke

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