By JW Parr
I sit down in waiting
For news to arrive
The grim reaper in the form
Of a white coat and clipboard
Locked inside a cacophonous prison
The rip and flip of pages
A click of a tv remote
An inhalation from an oxygen container
Fingernails scratching from shaky withdrawal
The hacking cough of cheap cigarettes
Behind closed doors a baby cries
Sliding glass and silver bells
One hour, no two – no, three
My own private purgatory
Or does time turn at all?
Perhaps the sandman is Death’s friend
Footsteps on waxed linoleum
Quick glance at the exit
As if running away
Could stop the inevitable
Nothing can.
J. W. Parr lives in the southeast United States with his wife, daughter, and puppy. He has been writing for several years, with some of his stories winning local writing competitions, as well as his fiction and poetry being published in the online magazines, The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Theme of Absence, and a forthcoming story in Jitter Press. J. W. runs a blog in which he frequently posts in with writing updates, poetry, short stories, and tips – the blog can be found at https://itsjwparr.wordpress.com/ – and he recently started an Instagram page where he posts daily poetry: https://www.instagram.com/itsjwparr/
