The clock ticks.

The waiting patients wait...
Backs against the edges of the room
they sit on creaking chairs, watch
    the slow rotation of time.

Warnings on walls; magazines
thumbed, out of date
laced with gaps where recipes
    were furtively removed.

From the corner, a cough
rasping, bronchial, echoed
antiphonally from the other side.
In the space between, microbes dance
    to the rhythm of the clock.

A sharp bleep, the display flashes,
a man rises, eyes follow him,
suspicious, envious,
    the air coagulates.

    the waiting patients wait...

The clock ticks.

Sylvia Fairley

If you have any thoughts on this poem, Sylvia Fairley 
would be pleased to hear them.