Waiting Room

The future is a doorway with no door
and the present a room where no waiting
is possible, unless it is the last
room, hospital ward or mortuary.
Of course, it might not be a room at all:
a pavement, hard and cold upon the cheek,
a patch of damp grass, bedewed by morning,
or a sandy beach with driftwood and shells,
a library, perhaps, sudden collapse,
from a chair or through an open window,
falling, half surprised by quick gravity.
Not now, no, never now but later on,
when there has been some warning of the end,
an announcement of probability.
Meanwhile, pass again through all those old doors
preserved in memory: Doors to those rooms
with their promises of desires fulfilled
or sanctuaries from danger or despair.
Wander alone in deserted mansions,
among the dusty splendour of lost lives,
or sit here and now in life's anteroom.