My Turn

I hear harsh man-made lighting over the rustling of newspapers,
in the waiting room magazines we wouldn't normally read are read,
as staff pop-in and out
in pink 'pyjamas',
sometimes blue or green.
Faces look up in hope...
"my turn?" they say.
No windows, no view, no breeze,
it could be anywhere,
any day,
or any time of day.

Eyeballs track staff - "my turn!"