No Door

In the waiting room,

I'm holding a form and pen.

The walls are blank, the air is warm,

and I've got nothing to do but wait.

So I draw a house.

Four walls. A peaked roof.

Three windows. I'm careful

with the detail.

I don't see it at first—

the missing door.

No entrance. No exit.

Just the walls, complete and sealed.

My hand has drawn

what I'm afraid to say:

that the windows let light in,

that inside looks fine,

but there's no way in.

No way out.

I fold the form.

The house creases. But I keep

seeing it. The architecture

of being trapped in a way

that looks acceptable.

Visible but unreachable.

Locked inside the light.