The Day Room is a solar cell,
pure science, stored-up light kept captive
in the quietest of solariums.
A room made of windows; outside, a swarm
of snowflakes are miniscule flotsam from
an exploded star, raining all around
behind the clear glass. A terrarium
with commercial-grade carpet and wheelchairs
in rows at the start line of the slowest race.
A field of silence punctuated by
coughs, potholes roughing up the terrain.
Photons feel like tryptophan,
filling the residents with a great weight. The air
is thick here, makes moving thick. Nothing without
effort. Sleep creeps around the room touching one
patient, then the next, juvenile games of narcoleptic
exchange. Noon news illuminates like a controlled
burn, makes sure they all stare in the same direction:
toward the television and into the light.