I was waved
towards the waiting-room
by a nurse
who said
‘Take a seat’
which I did
casually
after a few steps.

Covertly I noticed
an old man
among the patients
with large veined hands
and a Hebrew
wearing a skullcap
and pigtails
tied with pink ribbons.

Nobody seemed
to be looking at anything
in the sterile
air-conditioned stillness
of a cream-walled room
where a remote TV
projected images
nobody watched.

In that silent emptiness
where only feelings existed
anonymously
and existentially
in a desert of indifference
and self-absorption
I picked up a magazine
from a table.

The pages
slick and glossy
smelled of soap and semen
and featured
gurus of glamour
sophisticated and beautiful
with botoxed faces
cold as porcelain.

Dubious angels
posed for pictures
captured and trapped
emotionally vacuous
inside the lenses
of predatory cameras
with reality
lagging somewhere behind.

Dilettantes displayed
smiles like gargoyles
with bulging bosoms
shiny as silicone
elegantly dressed
while sipping martinis
and exuding the odour
of promiscuity and sex.

Invitations to gaze
were scattered like shrapnel
on every page
and a fabulous fop
Mr Nice Guy
married seven times
white haired and randy
was aiming for eight.

Mechanical smiles
and a plastic pose
from a toddler
attached temporarily
like a poodle
to an indifferent hand
clasped by an ocean
of pretentious emotions.

Polished pages
in the claustrophobia
of the waiting room
until called
with nothing to do
but look
and wait like a flower pot
on a windowsill.