It's my habit now: The Monday Poem

Really must thank TFE more for this. It's a good habit.
This was a little while ago, all much better now.

Waiting Room

Here is trouble. Two grandmothers, great,
an aunt, a cavalcade of cousins,
two brothers for sure, so in-laws too,
and one little girl of roundabout three
in a sequin-hemmed Monsoon sundress,
dark hair centre-parted, bunches then plaited,
dancing black patent shoes reflecting
the starched lace tops of her white-white socks.

She has one gold bracelet on each wrist;
grandmothers beckon her with armfuls.

Kindly Vishnu has placed her here
to distract our attention, thank Christ,
from the bloke in the sateen sports shorts
with the bum-bag and the bottle blonde missus.
If he rummages in the bum-bag again
whilst facing the coffee machine, again,
whilst my mother’s eyes roll, again,
I’m out of here.

I can pick out the Grandmas’ Urdu;
the younger ones speak Estuary like us,
and the little girl stands, head cocked
at the accented “Come here, come here”
then clings to Dad, safe from the jangling arms.
I can’t blame her. They scare me too.

Sitting close, touching knees,
two Somali sisters speak dark words;
their brother lies next door to mine,
close as the machines allow.

The little girl squeals, a pincer-movement
by the old women catches her,
and she is smothered with sari-love.
We all look up, my eye is caught, we smile.
We are bound family, held by this room,
and we won’t do pain.