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Michael Alleman
The Waiting Room
Into the eyeless sockets
the fog has already rolled.
Beyond the closing of the door,
the noses are gathered
from their faces. Only the noises
are left. Autumn rustles
in plastic sacks.
Shoes click their tongues and sigh
and the nervous water hushes them.
In the end, the practical, the inevitable
voice will arrive, colorless
like its coat.
Until then, the machine that prints receipts
clears its throat.
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