At the surgery
Here we are at the clinic`s
waiting room,
a fat lady with bandaged big toe,
and an old man leans on his walking stick
he lives alone.
An ancient couple from the upland,
dressed in their Sunday best,
hold hands and look endearing,
a youngish woman who keeps rummaging
through her bag, and me.
Six pairs of feet in a slow shuffle,
Electrocardiography doesn't
mend a tired heart, only tells
us we are mortal
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem