White Room Poem by Leslie Philibert

The windows of my soul have been
sheeted; cool and soft,
white rooms and blank tiles

digging in snow,
sucking at ice in the last big cloud.
Like a ballon I must be tied

to the arms of the earth. So
curl me up and wash all the mess
out of me, being a shell

of rubber and pumps.
I am filled with things that once grew.
My last lover, a box of lights and pictures.

I might even wave
or blow a kiss across the white sea.
Let me be pushed, let me drop like milk.