Waiting

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To those of us who’ve sat

in rooms with random magazines

and clocks that run backwards

wondering how we ever came to be

on a plastic chair with tiny, invisible

question marks crawling all over our skin.

How long?  How bad?

What next?  Why me?

There is this small boy

running onto a hospital ward

brandishing a card covered in glitter

that he made himself and other connections

to home, to love, to knowing you are not alone in this.

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