Workman's Comp Court Waiting Room Poem by Roger Gerald Hicks

Sometimes it's like boarding a 747-
nine-chair rows, people all colors-
all stations chatting-while some stow
baggage.

All peer forward, through glass doors.
Sightseers on a giant roller coaster
moments prior to a gut-wrenching plunge.

The doors swing incessantly like
abandoned house doors slam-banged by
gyrating winds.
Woolen suits stride in and out, sometimes
a silk dress,
dragging carts of files or lugging shiny,
designer briefcases.

Not the flamboyant, testosterone
spewing knights gloriously portrayed on TV-
they're the shiny-new; brow-furled has beens;
the chinless never was's. Smiling, joking,
disputing sports decisions, commiserating
high BMW repair charges, exorbitant prep
school tuitions, spoiled wife maintainance
never the lives they affect- effectively have
on hold.

"It's a volume business, " pouts a court clerk.

Lawyers accept every case, profit
from few-a ruptured spine, an unlawful
death culminating from workplace injury.
Unsympathetic, they dispense scant council,
settle potential $50,000 cases for $1500
if a desperate client numbly agrees.
Modus: quick bucks & mini-effort.

Another insult to sick, disgusted clients-
the stiflingly waiting room!
Not one complaint. We just fidget
like passengers on the once stalled
L.A. subway system, hopes see-sawing
like the pace of homeward-bound traffic...

Like preemies, pathetically dependent
upon inerts...plastic tubes porting nour-
ishment, filments gauging racing hearts.