the waiting room

the baby crying,
beneath the blue
blanket
in the waiting room
is the only sound
we hear.
the mother
tends to him,
with a finger to his lips.
whispering
soft words.
the baby keeps crying
despite love,
despite caring,
despite everything.
we sit quietly,
staring into magazines
we have no interest in,
having
learned, unlike the baby
yet, to mute
our tears.