Get out the microscope, because we’re going through this poem line-by-line.
The waiting room was bright
and too hot. It was sliding
beneath a big black wave,
another, and another.
- Poor Elizabeth. She snaps back to reality, and is overwhelmed by the bright lights and heat of the waiting room.
- Once again, she uses her imagination. She feels as if the entire room and everything in it is being carried out to sea by a series of dark waves.
- This is not a happy girl, and these waves could be a metaphor for a lot of scary and dark things, maybe even death itself.