2021, room 2.
2022, room 3
1035, room 6.
Masks on. Waiting. What are the eyes telling?
Fear? Weariness? Anger? Disappointment? Boredom? Hopelessness?
Bowing to their device gods, escaping the minutes into squares and likes. Some in their wheelchairs. Looking blankly ahead. As blank as their minds?
Doesn’t matter. All share the evidence of the work of the Devil—illness, suffering, death.
Where humans are equal. Status be damned.
But so is His love. Equal.
Where He died on the cross and rose to life three days later.
Man—saved from the clutches of the Devil.
Illness, suffering, death will be no more.
I wrote this poem while in the hospital’s waiting room. Accompanied my husband to have a scan done for his stage three lymphoma. The hospitals never failed to bring me back to the realities of life.