The Waiting Room
"The waiting room
was full of grown-up people"
Elizabeth Bishop

outside, my mother
is waiting with my brother
I know him, erratic, unsteady,
high-pitched: he is flinging
the simple plastic toys into
the air, my mother is trying
not to scream, she speaks in
a loud whisper

my brother is running
to the wall, running back
the other mothers
pull their children
onto their laps
the receptionist smiles as if
her ears are hurting

inside, the doctor is doing
something I wish he wouldn't
without gloves, without a nurse
he smiles as if he has found
a five dollar bill in an empty
pocket

after this, I will go home
and keep quiet while my brother
pounds a hole in the kitchen
wall with his head