Glass House

The television is set to the news

With a blizzard in Rochester this year

A reporter says the wind is severe.

Sitting there, snow powder still on my shoes,

The pea-green walls no one should get used to

And the unnatural light no window

Let in, strange faces I will come to know

Some more than others, those just passing through

And the same patterns I 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 my stay here will not be as short

Lines of association will break down

When each day is like any other day.

I cannot help but hear what they don’t say

No secret is private in this small town.

I weave together torn strands of living

Through two seasons, witnessing the parade

Of breakdown, suicides and progress made

The angry tears of the unforgiving

Who somehow had lost the ability

To climb up from the depths of their abyss

Finding a way to free themselves from this

Though after here will never be as free.