Terminal Poem by Glen Martin Fitch

I got here early.
Now I pace or sit.
I don't know when I'll leave.
I can't go back.
I'm not in pain
Just bored.
It's hope I lack.
No interest, intrigue.
'Make the best of it.'
It's cold here.
Over there it's hot.
The air is stuffy.
Gross graffiti on the wall.
My goal?
A meal, a nap.
The cleanest stall.
I want a quiet table,
cushioned chair.
Where lingers here injustice
left to right?
What wisdom lurks
within this magazine?
What unmet friend?
What beauty yet unseen?
What day dream still
can get me through the night?
Whose life is happy, healthy,
long, and great?
I'm stuck here
seeking comfort
while I wait.