A Waiting Room of Sorts

We sit, not together, in a waiting room of sorts
She a blue woman, wet behind the ears
Myself a red giant of self-gallowed situation
Where a metal tube roared upon my mouth
Water now riddled her veins
She sulks, letting watery residue from her eye
Coherent babbles bubbling out of cold, blue face
As she slumps into a mangled figure

Comfort comes to mind
Of me, though, not to her,
And a shameful boistrosity escapes me—a small laugh
She turns a sharp eye,
Dull from antics, blunt with passion,
Serrated with awkward young thoughts
I consider, briefly, speaking with her
Though, frankly, her tragedy isn’t worth this red giant’s time

——

dDamian Foreman lives in Central Arizona. He hopes that someday he won’t.

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