The Waiting Room

I’m sitting in Your waiting room as many others do
These rooms are full of waiting souls; do they know they wait for You?
Or are they just in limbo land, not quite sure where they are?
Or even where they left their teeth, or medicines on the bar?
They know that soon a bell will sound when their next meal is served
And they will blossom as they share the life that led them there.
Then, after that time, warmed and fed, returning to their room
A cosy heater on the wall, they hope for morning soon.

A rustle now, of footsteps, with voices soft and low
The doctor’s called to check a pulse. Alive? How does he know?
A pallid face, deep wrinkles set; expression too is set.
They don’t remember if you called or may call even yet.
Their memories are clearer of past and ancient times
The present too surreal to them and now has blurred the lines.
Yes, earlier the phone did ring; they remembered they were loved
And a burning tear coursed slowly down a cheek of your beloved.

W.B. July ‘14