Squander Time

Hospital waiting room. Blocks of time and nowhere to go. Killing time. Should be writing, but can't

concentrate. Everyone stacked and racked in chairs is a story, has a story, and is awaiting a happy ending. I took notes on expectant faces - ultimately grinning from relief, or crumpled in grief.

Family members leafed

lackadais-

ically

through magazines, or read book pages

without

comprehen-

sion.

I kept my journal open and remembering fields of colors - gorgeous flowers from the aboretum -attempted to turn a phrase or create a happier place.

Surely a poem would erupt from my brain onto the page inspired by the plant name Poet's Laurel.

Alas, I sqandered time. It was there ... the clock ticking on the wall, the butt in the chair, the paper, and the pen.

But, at least, I got to smile at good news and now the fingers fly across the keyboard -free from worry, and eager to capture a few memorable characters.