Poems in the Waiting Room

Poems in the Waiting Room

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It was a beautiful fall day last October. Sunny, warm, and a perfect day for a relaxing bike ride.  As I loaded my bike into the car, I felt anything but relaxed. This bike ride was to try to forget the stress that I had been under the past week. It was following me around like a dark cloud. I drove to the greenway, a place where I had often come to unwind.  

K.D. 

 

Jacob was propped up in bed, his I.V. attached to a drip line, his eyes glued to a movie. “Hi, Jacob,” I said, walking into his room. “I’m an artist, want to play with clay?” Jacob’s big smile was the only response I needed to know I had a willing and eager participant. I’m always amazed that when I introduce myself as an artist and ask if the child wants to play with clay, the television is no longer a focal point.