When I was a boy, and on the days I didn't have swimming club,
I exited school sprinting
and I waited,

in my parent's medical practice.
The waiting room was white and reflective,
with artificial LED lights and worry,

the cream carpet was scratchy on my always naked toes,
clashing with the too-big chairs, red like blood, soft like hope,
hardwood arms with fingerprints pressed deep, still unbroken.

The child's corner was complete, with toys and comics and waiting kids,
only for babies though, not me.
Still, I was forbidden from the office,

where nurses, receptionists and secrets roamed,
seen over top the unassailable counter
and by poking my head around the corner of the grey-stamped door.

Sometimes, when I simpered and smiled enough,
the nurses would pat my head and unlock the password protected corridor computer,
where I would play online games on Miniclip.com.

It always smelled so very clean at the hospital,
and I wouldn't want to leave when Mum or Dad finally finished;
“I'm nearly done, I've nearly won”, but no, no, time to go home.