From the waiting room

Photo by NMG Network on Unsplash

For those that still read paper, this poem helped me consider why we might find travel magazines in the doctor’s office.

From the waiting room

I turned my head 
from the window

grabbed the journal 
from the table
and flung it open:

“You can bring home 
as much as your soul 
can carry”

and I laughed to imagine 
stowing the horizon 
spanning the page
while I flipped

eyes rolling—    

to have room
for such sunset . . .  

to unpack those pinks, 
imprints of rose-wines— 
where would they hang?
I have no space
for skies 

mine are clouded 
by the vainly dreamt,
all that wants
to be traveled,
but remains 
well-meant— 

unless my crowded life,
muddled with 
the memoried, 
its toted notions

spill, then empty— 

and are lifted light
to color-spawn, 
on the pagelessness 
of sunsets dawned.