The manilla folders smelled like newspaper,
sprawled out on desks, putrid with diagnosis.
Big room, no hopes, small dreams. Be still.

They won’t notice you.

How easy to hide a mind in such an unbalanced establishment,
strolling around in slugglish undertones, almost trepid.
The window always shadowed the black chair that statues in front of it,

Where he wore a white coat.

Bitten pencils and black horn rimmed cracked glasses,
the heart of a genius, the soul of a friend.
The rays of sun encircle his black chair behind him, diluting his frame,

Never revealing his face.

Man sits in the opposing chair, messy hair,
Handicapped, strapped to himself, arms crossing one another
like an enemy would in a barbarous war of emotions,

Where he wore a white coat.

Doctor Black Horn Rimmed Glasses, arms folded by free will,
white coat loose, hair almost too perfect on a faceless head.
Where the same sit in different chairs, different rooms,

Where they all wear white coats.