In The Waiting Room

In the Waiting Room the folk look dumb
Like a Van Gogh  painted with the thumb
Colours swirl uncanny as I peer
I guess my perfect hate has made more fear
Wondering what the dickens is to come.

I want to get  the bus though noone’s home
Only Alfred clawing at my comb
It’s not as if a cat could read King Lear
I  dream  of Summer  donkeys  by the pier
In the Waiting Room

Oh, for Istanbul and   rounded Dome
No pointed steeple like a finger torn
The floating heavens here enclose   the higher
If waiting is a horror, I’m a liar
We are a  haul of  herrings   shipped to  shore
In the Waiting Room