Waiting Room
A young man
With a sparkling earring
And clothes that reek
Of sickening smoke,
The kind that dulls
All the senses
And makes me choke
He’s tapping his foot,
A jerking rhythm
Of uneasiness
The smoke is in his mind;
I know it is
His eyes are glazed
They dart as if watching
Ghosts from last night
Evaporating
Into puffs of smoke
Death and dullness
Inhale, exhale…again
Breath is for living
Or dying, it seems
Black and purple
Purple and black
The color of his clothes
And his bruised mind
A raven’s head
Is staring blankly
From his crumpled shirt;
It gives me chills
There is a tattoo
Scrawled up his neck
Green words, unreadable,
Possibly swears
Like every other word
He mumbles
His tone is monotonous;
His meaning unclear
O God, I wish he would leave…
A little child comes
Into this Waiting Room
Pudgy-faced, pink-cheeked
She coughs a little
Does she have a cold?
Or is it…the smoke?
And then I notice…
She is wearing black and purple too
It belies her soft features,
Her golden mop of hair
And baby-blue eyes
She’s playing with toys,
Sliding beads along twisted wires,
Running in circles,
Pretending to be a monkey
Or to fly from off a chair
She’s running…running…
Running into the arms
Of the young man
With a sparkling earring
And clothes that reek
Of sickening smoke
And he picks her up
And I see
Love
In those blood-shot eyes
And I hear
Love
In those mumbled words
And her face lights up
With angelic innocence
And she starts to play
With his backwards baseball cap
There are words in my heart
Burning, like my face:
“Let the little children come
To Me.”
To Me.
To him.
My God.
Was Christ before me
In this waiting room,
Gazing out
Through smoke-seared eyes
And mumbling
Through drug-cracked lips?
And while I wished Him
Far away
A little child
Saw the truth?
O Savior with the Suffering Face,
Teach me how
To see!
© 2016 Avellina Balestri
