the waiting room

poetry

an hour passes
and i’m still here
waiting on,
fulfilling the room’s purpose;

so at least one of us should be glad,
basking in the glow of fulfillment,
being what we were created to be,
and perhaps that one is me.

perhaps i should be glad
to wait on my betters,
to be at their call,
paying them to be my betters.

but still the anger rises
and the visions of outbursts
pass before my unoccupied mind,
internally, impotently screaming,
waiting for my turn to come.