The Waiting Room

I can gracefully afford this trip

to the ER. Sick son in my arms,

his dark skin pale and discolored,

approaching the waiting room.

Far from desolate, persons wearing the

same face as my boy, both infirm and

full of viral shedding. A wait much

longer, I reason with a young intern

who exhibits more empathy than White

eyes of distaste coming from the lobby,

exuding self-righteous precedence.

A notion my son and I must sit and wait,

skipped. Again. Gunshot wounds,

rotting lives. White savior and then

our privilege to service, yet we all share

health and impartial care. All I want is

my boy to receive the same love and

priority; he is as deserving. Though

when his name is called, I gaze upon

my only child, he inanimate. Cold,

like the sick people encircling him.