In the waiting room of Neverland,
They call my name, but I don’t understand.
“Are you the patient or just passing by?”
“I’m not really sure, it depends on the sky.”
My fingers, my back, my heel’s got a pain,
They say it’s a trick of the mind or the brain.
"Here’s a pill for the ache you don’t feel,
And one for your soul, which is never quite real."
The nurse looks right through me, as if I’m not there,
“Next one, please!”—but the list is unfair.
Those who come after are somehow ahead,
And those up in front just sit there instead.
“You’ll need an X-ray of the air you breathe,
And one of the shadow your body might leave.
But don’t be alarmed, there’s nothing to dread,
If you don’t know what’s wrong, there’s nothing to shed.”
They charge for my spot, for my pulse, for my talk,
Even for the cough I tried not to unlock.
“Insurance will cover, but here’s the catch:
Your health doesn’t fit in the premium batch.”
And the doctor? No clue, I’ve never seen his face,
He speaks like a ghost from a faraway place.
“Relax, dear patient, there’s no cure, just rest—
The illness is endless, but we’ll heal you best.”
I leave feeling fine, but somehow still ill,
With scripts for eternity, inked with good will.
And as I depart, I hear from the hall:
“Next one, please… we’re not old at all.”
©gj30
G