Lady in the waiting room 
Vermillion smeared on fore head. 

Sandal paste on your neck

Hands buried in beads 

Fumbling fingers moving

The mouth chanting a prayer

As your mother’s tired eyes wait

Her hand clings to her colostomy bag

Patiently, just as the doctor said.
I see you have come from the temple

His marks are fresh on you 

And here in this cancer hospital 

You’re not alone, many take that route

Church, temple, mosque, synagogue 

Clinging to life in a clear plastic bag.

I try not to stare, I look away: my eyes ask

Has He ever heard you, then

He to whom you pray?