White Space

The sun is bright and very wide,

there’s nowhere left for me to hide.

The dust is thick upon the wood,

I’d clean it if I thought I should.

I turn the page and see the square,

thirty days of empty air.

No names to call, no place to go,

the ink is dry, the clock is slow.

It’s Tuesday, or it’s nearly noon.

The quiet is a heavy tune—

well, a noise. A flat, white noise.

I've lost the feeling of my voice.