A Glass House

The television is set to the news,

With a blizzard in Rochester this year,

A reporter tells us the wind is severe.

Sitting there, snow powder still on his shoes,

The pea-green walls no one should get used to,

The unreal light, let in by no window.

He sees strange faces he will come to know,

Some, more than others, those just passing through,

And the same patterns he will recognize,

The same wadded tissues they leave behind,

Admittance papers after they are signed,

Will become easy to categorize,

As if in a glass house, to know the sort,

Knowing his stay here will not be as short.

Lines of association will break down,

When each day is like any other day.

He cannot help but hear what they don’t say,

No secret is private in this small town.