I waited a very long time
In the echoing corridor,
But nobody came to direct me.
Nobody came with the next thing.
Nobody came.

Back where the corridor
  jogged and turned
A desk poked out
  like the prow of a ship,
Derelict, now, and dusty
Under a thrumming of lights,
It carried a spilled cargo
  of punch cards
And somebody’s paperbound lunch.

For Emergencies Only
There was a bell to ring
And I rang it,
Longer than I felt like ringing,
Stabbed as I was by the lights
And every door closed.

The telephone was dead
And kept on being dead
Even when I jiggled it.
I tried to say, “Hello?”
“Is anybody here?”
But my mouth was sealed dry.

I swallowed cold coffee
From the stale, open carton
And broke off one crust of the bread
Which I found too hard
And old for chewing.

There were some tortured chairs
Made for waiting, not for sitting.
And when I walked
I couldn’t make any noise
Between all the pauses I made
For listening.

I waited a very long time
In the echoing corridor,
But nobody came to question me.
Nobody came to answer me.
Nobody came.

Mildred Clingerman, 1967