The Waiting Room

A man sits in a waiting room. I write an observation poem about the man as I too, wait.

He sits
waiting.
His white, blonde hair
meticulously combed
to cover where hair
no longer grows.

He listens
intently.
A hearing aide
clings
To his ear.

His clothes have creases,
the type an iron makes.
He is asked if he has a
better way
to spend his day.

Yes, he answers.
I need to
get my wife dressed
and ready for her day,
so yes,
I have much to do.

The door opens,
Michael?
That's me, he replies.
Moments pass
as he tries
to stand.

Slowly
he rises
from his chair.
As if he were standing
on a wire
with no net
he balances himself.
Just need to get my knees working.

How are you today, Michael?
Well...
I'm breathing.