Robert Donohue


To learn the dreaded outcome of his fate,
While in a waiting room, John will await
A summons through an ordinary door
That separates him from a corridor.
Along this corridor, as if for miles,
Are offices, with confidential files,
And in these files doctors tucked away
The many reasons John is here today.
But thinking of his own impending doom
John doesn’t think about a waiting room,
Instead, he thinks of temples lit with tapers,
High priestesses, and cauldrons spewing vapors,
And in these ceremonies John will see
Whatever was, and what will come to be.
John’s fantasy will dissipate for him
When somebody comes out the door, not in.
Still waiting, John envies this person leaving,
About this person there is no believing
He was beyond that door. With utmost calm
This person pumps Purell unto to his palm
The same as anybody on their way,
But just before, to John, he seems okay,
He takes an extra squirt of the Purell
And spikes his hair like he is using gel.

Robert Donohue’s poetry has appeared in Amethyst Review, Freeze Ray Poetry, and The Font, among others. He lives on Long Island, NY.