Member-only story
Kafkatesque (Mort)
This waiting room is painted of pain, featuring faces with mouths down-turned,
impatience taking up these empty seats, of family members already lost.
We feel like the least loved in the mighty grasps of almighty fate’s crushing hands,
We feel like the last patients to be visited during the night shifts, by nurses and doctors,
the times of day when the most dust is swept back to the humble soil
by an unseen, yet not-so-invisible bashing broom.
The old fan — barely hanging — is closing in full circle, a whole life lived.
Dull curtains, some unhooked and five-minutes-to falling, alongside the walls’ stripes
designed with a print of doctors’ usual words, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
If life’s race truly begins at forty, then hers ended at the starting line.
This would be a misplaced and mixed metaphor if it weren’t for the Olympics silently running
in the background
on the TV, reminding me of my mute cries, surprised eyes bulging,
gaping mouths with no sound.
