The Waiting Room

The electronic door snaps open. First re-
treating, one foot reluctantly crossing o-
ver into the uncertain cleanliness of
shadowless spaces, the other soothed
into surrender by the soft rounded sounds
of a mechanical movement of air.

The little room is empty.

Was the music on before I entered?
If no one is listening, does it exist?

Suddenly, a smile slides open, registering
identity. I murmur something quickly as it
folds back into the blankness of the white
wall and the modern day ritual of healing
begins.

Sitting. Waiting. So striking how we first
sweep the life out of a space and then try
to fill it with half-hearted gestures, primal
recollections, our way of secretly sharing
with each other how strange this all is.

Calendar photos of distant places,
magazines overflowing with healthy,
happy faces, and plants, ah yes,
the obligatory plant in the corner.

Real or plastic? The question
of our time...

The next step of evolution?

...The natural imitation
of artificial life, a camouflage
to protect from the loneliness
of neglect.