
















The Waiting RoomThe Waiting Room
Her computer hums against the voices,
joining in their whispers.
She sits by the telephone,
waiting for the call.
Around her,
everyone is chit-chatting.
Rambling.
Nothing is clear.
The small TV on a pedestal,
its cloth of dust hanging over it,
shows it again.
The earth is shattered.
Dust pouring up,
then raining down.
Her stomach follows its pattern as she watches.
She searches the depths
of the screen,
looking for his familiar face,
desperately hoping to not find it.
Her hand snaps up the phone,
shoves it against her ear.
Patricia Wood.
Appointment Thursday.
Ten sharp.
Her eyes flick from the screen































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