Waiting Area (Poetry)

Such drab linoleum — who was it chose
this sludge-grey-green? Did they suppose
the average patient of the NHS
lacks all aesthetic taste — could not possibly possess
that sense where dowdy colour’s ill-effects
might drain resolve, unsettle and depress?

This has to be the ultimate in drear —
an institutionally extra-dull excess
and the absolute antithesis to cheer —
it is so bleak, so desolate in here —
so grubby-looking-tired this narrow room
windowless — thus airless in its gloom.

It’s Purgatory — it’s Limbo — it’s a void —
it’s clear no empathy has been employed
in its decor. Two prints screwed to the wall
so bland they barely count as art at all.
Nothing else to look at — bolted seats
and chipped-off plaster where each corner meets.

It’s torture to be made to sit and wait
when the instinct is to urgently vacate
this alien unnerving atmosphere —
a concentrated cloud of piss and fear
growing stronger, while each minute feels like ten
as you browse the year-old magazine again.



Note: Crawley Hospital 19.11.08