Backview

The stark paper-white 
   of a building’s backside
occupied the only view 
   he had of the world.
It blinded him
   on sunlit July afternoons.
Its slow piercing sharpness
   started after they brought his lunch
   as it burned 
   at his detached soul
and retinas
   until the early evening news.
They would converge then
   upon him 
with clipboards and bottles
   and their starched whites
and shoe squeaks followed by
   a stained alabaster 
compartmented tray that
   separated his food
so no puree would invade 
   the mashed, blenderized meat
The chronological conspiracy
   left him trembling
and soiling white linens 
   and latex
     No visitors
     No conversations
only the vast flatness of TV land
   with its boring flesh
and repeated declarations
   as the hall light
began to shadow his room
   in a diffused
   emotionless vacuum.
He waited and watched
   as the view softened,
   as a woman, her 
   hand extended,
and a gentle moon rose above
   the wall that separated
   him from everything.