The waiting room waits for us
to move through it. Magazines
collect like silt. We try to collect
each other's thoughts; fail;
return to our own. The waiting room
is quieter than most places
of worship. A door opens rudely.
The caller of names holds
a file, speaks two words brusquely.
One of us gets up. No one
says goodbye or good luck.
Those remaining settle too quickly
back into waiting. We've become
like birds on a roost at dusk.
The world cannot end as long as
there are waiting rooms
because that would be too dramatic.
Hans Ostrom 2013