The Waiting Room

The term Cancer appears
On almost every bulletin on the wall
Spilling across the body of the room, where I
Am awaiting the arrival of my business partner.
The wall itself, a fading white,
Feels interrupted somehow
With false promises of treatment.

On the right arm of the room

Is a large French window.
Wood, here, meets cement,
And glass, and the inhalation of
Growing perennials.
Light floats in like a whorl of wispy feathers
Spinning around the nauseous air within,
That only knows Cancer and its descent –
Tales of permanent absence.

I think about Claudia

And a pearly bouquet of white stephanotis.

The rest is still.

Occasionally, someone walks in,

And talks to the receptionist,
About logistics of conference rooms,
Or how to get a coffee refill, or even
Where the restrooms are.

Employees walk around; some

with purpose, others purposeless,
taking a break from a long day of work;
their shoes rioting
Against a mezzanine floor.

This room, of research and lofty promises,

Is supposed to bring me hope.
Instead I think of death,
And fear becoming a trial of science myself,
Under the pall of a statistic, from which
I have a hard time recovering.

Two PM strikes

On the grandfather clock.

I see my business partner walking

Hastily through the parking lot.  

I take a deep and clearing breath

And proceed to greet him.