The Hospital Waiting Room

A waiting room, a hospital,
2am, with blurry eyes,
I drowsy, peer, as soft sleep curls,
And like a blanket lies.

A print machine hums lonely,
Tunes in an half-lit room,
Sings soft sestinas in the dark,
To shadows in the gloom.

Outside the hospital I see,
A flashing neon sign,
The girl in the Advert stares at me,
Says, "Buy this fancy wine"..

Upstairs, my Grandma's life's road wends,
80 years, a kidney stone,
For Death is chewing on the ends,
Of her life and of her bones.

Ma's eyes seem dark, seem dark and gaunt,
Her childhood memories die,
And tears of age have stained the joy,
In Grandma's lullabies.

My ostentatious Aunt now weeps,
And howling has a fit,
I wonder if she hurts down deep,
Or stops to think a bit.

My Uncle, cold, says not a word,
Estranged from her he was,
And now he thinks it quite absurd
At death for life to pause.

But there in that cold darkened hall,
Where tears of pain streamed down,
No whispered words did I let fall,
Nor howled, the pain to drown.

Yet here I am with pen in hand,
Regurgitating tears,
But down inside i'm dry as sand,
Forgive me Grandma dear.

Oh Grandma please do forgive me,
I love you still, it's true,
But now i've become a poet, you see,
And this is what I do.

The print machine, so quiet it is,
But when you press on it,
It's inner poetry shall whiz,
And noisy squeaks shall spit.

Those Ads upon the car-blocked roads,
Those Ads that flash up high,
Showing pretty things in tiny clothes,
Selling coloured lies.

Like the machine and like those Ads,
I flash, I stir, I squeak.
Though Grandma taught me how it's bad,
Such filthy lies to speak.

Upstairs, my Grandma's writhing, curled,
As if on fire burned,
The printers and the Ads of the world,
Serenely unconcerned.

We live in little bubble worlds,
ME, I, MY, it's true,
Grandma look at this poem unfurled
Ostensibly for you