I am tired of waiting,
waiting, waiting and waiting
in the waiting area,
just to get my wounds treated,
wounds that pain me
throughout the day and night.
I shouldn’t have asked the triage nurse
if the health centre would close by eight,
just to make sure
I wouldn’t have to stay after eight.
But she said,
even if the centre closes,
we will stay until ten.
That was enough
to put me in the last place.
They might call me at about ten
and say,
Did you see?
Just to show me,
Oh, we will be here until ten.
No.
That shouldn’t happen.
I am tired of staring
at the same mobile screen,
watching random programmes on TV
that don’t interest me.
People talking,
almost whispering.
The vending machine humming.
Someone opening a packet of crisps.
Someone desperate for a call,
like me.
Please,
call my name.
I am tired of waiting,
here,
with this wound,
this throbbing pain.
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