by WILLIAM AARNES
Like you, both the man
and the woman who soon followed
have sorted through and rejected
the dated magazines
that somehow got puffed
with paging. And, like yours,
their eyes keep roaming
around the waiting room
as if it’s not comforting exactly
but more like reassuring
to know others suffer.
You exchange looks.
Yours, you worry, shows concern.
Her kindly nod seems to say
there’s no cure for fate.
His pleased, determined smile
suggests he’d just as soon scoff
at any prognosis.
