Sirens of babies, whimper.
Chairs lined up like soldiers in
the hospital white.
Diagnosis, on a Sunday morning.
Waiting, Aching, Waiting, Watching.
Lights dim, low music soothes.
burn my morning eyes.
Blood, Bandages and Boredom.
Tonsils need attention but
the young before the old.
Anxious toddler cries, the clock
pushes forward. The parents wait.
My head is thumping,
my throat itches, it cracks.
Pins and Needles surfaces through my feet.
People hope, people wait.
For the magic pill.
The space is getting tighter,
like an old, worn jumper.
People demanding their corners,
their space, to breathe – no fresh air.
Diagnosis, on a Sunday afternoon.
My name echoes
Bounces off the walls