there are people who sit with people
and those who merely sit
some eye the wall, engulfed
others linger with eyes dissonant
my dad sits in a chair, his hands bent
he is marked and raging with time
his gentleness is beyond question
he has no passion that is not imminent
he is in a waiting room with others, waiting
and the evening is early, i see fear as he calls
for my mother, she is asleep, and dreaming
the staff do not meet ones eye and seem disconnected
i leave through a side door, my dad is talking about the future
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