Sitting in a waiting room invites simple attractions.
Atmosphere unique…pink, grey, maroon
rap music playing softly (is that an oxymoron?)
Waiting Room People sit and watch the Workers
with their vacuums, brooms, parading in and out.
Women with big hair wearing huge sun glasses
Vending machines clink and clunk and give refreshments
phones ring, lights blink, an intercom sqwacks and hisses,
An automatic door vies with an electric eye for control of a door mat.
I always talk to strangers. We form no bond, sitting there
chatting about the fish tank. It doesn’t matter what language is used,
there is only so much one can say about fish.
There is no social hierarchy in a fish tank. Color is immaterial.
No one is impressed with Irridescence. Bottom feeders are free to graze.
Pink fish are just as good as Big fish, although possibly…more vulnerable.
The biggest Angel Fish is not in charge here…but he thinks he is,
which is about the same thing. He swims around in his cool
hipster fish style, while little fish ignore him.
Oh-oh, a challenger! A tense moment as they
posture…staring eye to eye with a bump to the shoulder,
since they can’t arm wrestle.
“Please lift you feet,” asks the Hipoctamus, as he vacuums by,
and the Angel Fish sail along grandly, on self-appointed patrol.