The White Room by Spencer Slater

We know the white room
And how precise each detail
Saddens so much
The uniform beds
Where we die side by side
The driftwood of life
Dragged in by the tide

And we know the perfume
That secretes from each pore
Of the late-shift cleaner
Who sweeps up the floor
Breaking her back for some extra cash
To pay back her debts in cigarette ash
With nicotine hands
She stubs out the night
And winds her way home
In search of a light

Nocturnal postcards
Depicting a life
The patient can’t sleep
When he suspects his wife
Of seeing an old friend
She once knew at school
Reliving her childhood hood
And playing him for a fool

Terminal cases
That’s all we are
You won’t see the faces
And you can’t hide the scar
From the mask of the surgeon
And the precision of his knife
Cutting out pieces
And rearranging your life