DEATH
has a Waiting Room
that invites Everyone
but no one wants
to sit
The TV is broken
The magazines are out of date
The chairs are uncomfortable
The coffee is bad
The rattling water cooler
never refreshes
The Clientele
too familiar and annoying
with their hacking
incessantly loud obnoxious yawnings
and an occasional party noise
You’re not sure that comes from
a person or the faux vinyl seat
you never intended to quite fit
It’s a room with poor ventilation
The carpet is worn
but not faded
stubbornly holding onto its colors
and a scent that can’t quite be
identified or replicated
There’s the dim light
that can never be squinted Brighter
All this
and just like that
You’re no longer there
–noticed–
Even before your name is mispronounced
to come forth
DEATH
is a finish line
We all run from
to only find out
at the End
we’ve all madly sprinted
Our Way Towards
(c o n t i n u o s l y)