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.