Waiting

William Ernest Henley

A square, squat room (a cellar on promotion),
  Drab to the soul, drab to the very daylight;
  Plasters astray in unnatural-looking tinware;
  Scissors and lint and apothecary’s jars.

Here, on a bench a skeleton would writhe from,
  Angry and sore, I wait to be admitted:
  Wait till my heart is lead upon my stomach,
  While at their ease two dressers do their chores.

One has a probe—it feels to me a crowbar.
  A small boy sniffs and shudders after bluestone.
  A poor old tramp explains his poor old ulcers.
  Life is (I think) a blunder and a shame.