At the GP
It’s grey outside. It's grim and humid.
Teeth tut in Newham,
Teeth kiss from origins in West Africa,
A grandpa huffs with lungs from India,
Nobody likes waiting.
A child tugs at his mum’s cardigan and asks for the tablet.
‘So am I’ she responds.
A light despond descends as she checks her watch again.
The receptionist throws a waxy smile,
‘will only be a short while’,
As boredom drips from the ceiling on this rude November morning,
Splashing on foreheads and forearms,
Splashing on sickly people,
It makes them check their nails and newsfeeds for dirt.