Blinds (Poetry)

The window had Venetian blinds
and looked out on the busy Brighton road —
the constant hum of passing traffic
made each hollow silence less oppressive —

all those questions I didn’t know how to answer —
words buzzing before the lull — the gap
I couldn’t fill with anything — so
I stared between those thin white metal slats

watched the cars and wished I was elsewhere...
the stranger behind his patient smile
getting less attention — from time to time he’d write
a comment down — turn the crisp pages of a file.

The way the daylight slanted through those blinds
threw shadows on the wall — across the floor
like bars. Whatever else was in that room —
including how he looked — is lost beyond recall.

That pattern stays to haunt uncomfortably
every future room bright sun turns into a cage
for waiting out quiet punishment — a trial
unravelling a string of wordless crimes —

some record shows my sentence still not done.