The imitation-friendly beamed at me.
Yellow walls and dried flowers
Radiating happiness.
Everything in its place.
No lines I thought to straighten
Or pieces that didn't belong.
It's like they knew they'd be dealing with
my type.
"Make yourself at home,"
A smiling invitation of bare feet.
I made myself uncomfortable
on the comfortable upholstery.
"Tell me why you're here."
My interrogator beamed once more.
The radiating walls were happily suffocating me
with their openness.
The clock was jovially ticking--
constant, steady, mocking,
urging me to break the silence.
But I like my silence whole, thanks.
I held the ticking in my hand
[better not let it get the best of me]
And kept my silence whole.
The interrogator continued to beam,
Warmly. Like the yellow of the walls.
She looked trustworthy enough,
but it was all in the name of career.
She looked strange, somehow,
like a human semblance of an animated animal.
I entertained myself with the thought.
A horse, maybe? In the mouth.
Off in a humorous sort of way.
"The switch for the lamp in the waiting room,"
I started, "It turns on the radio."
The yellow beam never faltered.
The ticking continued.
It occured to me I was bidding my time.
Might as well say what she wanted to hear.
The walls and smiles grew fingers
searching, prodding.
Broad questions were met with superficial answers.
I never liked yellow.
I started counting clocks.
I started counting ticking.
Prod as the sunbeams may,
They couldn't pierce my armor.
Warmth wouldn't win over my skin.
And only the ticking's what it seemed.
The lady behind the warm beaming
Didn't always beam.
And peel back the yellow paint
--You're left with cold, concrete grey.
Maybe I am crazy, after all.
Doesn't matter, time is up.
"Well, it's been great talking to you,"
the yellow beamer spoke.
It's been like talking to a wall.
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