At the Clinic – poem

In the waiting area between Phlebotomy

and Doctor Abromovitch's Clinic, among

strangers who have something in common,

observe the electronic queue-machine

click 90, 91, 92 one digit at a time

ad infinitum. Here the space between past

and future is almost visible to the naked eye.

Twiddle your thumbs. No point getting anxious.

Your number will be up in due course.

Stare at the walls, at the NHS posters'

advice on smoking, HIV, arthritis;

or at the TV – Richard & Judy Live

with the sound down. Or else peruse

the copy of The Sun left on a chair

by someone who has gone before you,

barely glancing at the improbable tits

of Tina from Tyneside. Scandal, rape,

murder, the War – it's a fucking mess,

but not, while you're here, your business.

It's reassuring to be in this dull lull

in your life, even if it's an antechamber

to something worse. Soon enough

the gent in the striped shirt, cufflinks,

bow-tie, with a foreign-sounding name,

will greet you and shake your hand

and like an understanding headmaster

convey with courteous matter-of-factness

the results from your last appointment,

after which everything will be different.

Selected by Femi Oyebode. Published in The Hippocrates Prize Anthology, Hippocrates Press, 2012.

Neil Ferguson is a novelist and short-fiction writer. Visit his website at neilferguson@com

© Neil Ferguson. Reprinted with permission.