Poetry

Christy Bindas

By

J.K. Durick

Waiting Room Windows

One wall of the waiting room is all windows

Looking out, watching a hallway, walkway

Leading to other waiting rooms, each has its

Own malady, disorder, body part, here the eyes,

Then allergies, and on, and on, a litany we get to

Hear as we age, but across the hall there are more

Windows looking out to a courtyard of sorts,

It seems peaceful and so quiet, trees and shrubs,

A few flowers, staged I’m sure, nature’s tranquility

To play off the medical strip mall we’re part of;

I imagine people gathering out there, the young

Woman who greets us each time, checks our name

And tells us to take a seat, she must have a break

Sometimes, goes out there with the one who checks

Us out, sets the next appointment, or the one who

Goes into the backroom with patients with a handful

Of papers, or even the doctor himself, who never

Enters the waiting room, but who could appear out

There at that picnic table, with his assistants laughing

Talking like all was well with the world, perhaps

A few patients could join them, a scene for the brochure,

But the scene, as seen from here is empty right now,

Is always that way, blurry vision, eye patches, thick

Glasses, waiting, watching each other waiting; they

Imagined and designed the room just for that – waiting.

Cruising

On a cruise, ours lasted twelve days, we become children again,

Never make our beds, trail towels and clothes, leave them behind,

Sit down to eat three part meals, chairs pulled out for us, even our

Napkins furled out and dropped in our laps; these laps of luxury

Don’t surprise us after a while, the sommelier knows exactly what

We want, what fits the entrée, the stewards, the waiters, and the rest

Greet us, keep smiling, as if the roles fit, came with the turf, the deck,

As if this is as things should be, somehow fated, the haves and the folks

Who tend them; we mispronounce their names and ask them about home;

They’re on eight-nine month cruises, always smiling, making a bed or

Holding a chair, singing happy birthday to people they’ll never know

Beyond the things they order; I’ll begin with the soup, then the surf and

Turf, and bananas foster for dessert, he’ll smile and get it right each time

 – this isn’t like home for any of us.

J.K. Durick

J.K. Durick is a writing teacher at the Community College of Vermont and an online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Social Justice Poetry, Record, Yellow Chair Review, Madswirl, and Haikuniverse.