The Waiting Room in Purgatory
Chair pads of crushed red velvet,
singed;
stained by unknown liquids
over
countless centuries.
Ornate, carved wood backs darkened
with
age, gleaming from layers
of wax,
gouged by nails and claws
and
teeth
and
desperation.
The air is thick
with fetid breath,
and
smoke
and
dire need.
For eons, my tired eyes
have
traced, ev’ry thread; ev’ry
hole and
stain on the moth-eaten
tapestry that reads:
Neither here nor there.
© Suzanne Reynolds-Alpert, 2014
