White is the room, and dark the man
Who therein sits. He keeps no track
Of time or year—each year
The same—each day
White is the room, and darkness therein lies,
Wolf in wool, black in white,
A teacup washed outside and not within.
He lies in wait.
White is the room, and lost are those within.
I came for love; I found despair,
For there was evil there,
In that white room.
White is the room, and there I lie
To mumble, babble, prattle
Of my mother, father, brother,
And the agents—all the agents.
White is the room, and evil listens,
While doodling in an old notebook.
And of my woes, my pains, my sorrows—
My syndromes, phobias, snarkings,
Only one he’ll diagnose.
“My dear, you’ve procrastinated too long.
Last week was poetry. Get thee gone!”
White is the room, and there I left my hopes,
For what good is illness, undiagnosed?
I’d hoped for comfort, wisdom, maybe aderol,
Yet he left me with a business card.
White is the room, and I’ve left it behind.
I enter now a building—the address on the card—
And here it is I found it: the cluegun of Miss Snark.
I needed no directions; I hurried to New York.
There I found an agent, and aimed it for her heart.
“You will look at my query, and look at it right now.”
“Is that a cluegun that I see? Then do your will.”
I fired it at her; it bounced right back at me.
And it’s made all the diff’rence:
Now I know my ABC’s!