Week 8: White Walls

I wonder
if you’re watching me.
The way I sit, my legs like
pipecleaners entwined.
The way I sometimes
stare too long,
at scrubbed white walls
too bright to look at.
I wonder if you notice
the trivial things like I do,
the way the children
hug white roses to their chests,
looking on with wide eyes,
the old men waiting for their wives
with feathery hair
like cotton, white against
stark pink
cheeks.