Every Moment that Passes

In the waiting room
the walls are ruthlessly white,
they have no colour nor texture
they seem impossible in this modern, busy, information-loaded world.

The silence here is thick
swimming underwater
gravity’s rules not applying any longer.

I rub my thumb against my thigh.
I chew lightly on my lip.
I watch a fan move back and forth
endlessly oscillating.

Sometimes
in my mind
I inventory the tools in my steel toolbox:
screwdriver, hammer, saw, awl.
Can any of them fix this problem?
Is it that simple?
Is it that easy?

It is not.

From behind
I hear footsteps approaching and
my stomach contracts,
my eyes look upward
watching the approaching shadow,
my lips open slightly, expectantly
desperate to utter the words, “thank you;”
hope has not left me yet

I’m trying to have faith,
desperately I’m clinging to it in fact,
but every moment that passes,
every approaching shadow that passes
having merely just interrupted the light
steals from me
steals from my resolve
leaves me in this vicious silence
watching for shadows
and weeping
as my faith
melts mercilessly away.





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