If this waiting is hellish, then the sick are limbo dancing;
only those who are bent double, or on the floor, puddles
of their former selves, have a hope of getting under the bar,
progressively lowered as more contorted squeeze through.
If the woman in a white coat is god, then the boy with bleeding hands
has stigmata, the man with closed eyes on the stretcher is Lazarus,
and the toddler pushing donkey-on-wheels up and down,
up and down, is one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
If this is a place of worship, then the grey kidney-shaped receptacles
are donation plates passed around for contributions from the faithful,
hopeful they are worthy of saving. If this is where you think the wait
will end within four hours, then think again, the end is always waiting.