The pungent aroma of potpourri permeates,
Seeping into the pores of the pine table.
You'll never get the smell out.
Manila like magazine pages masticated,
What I would imagine prehistoric papyrus to look like.
The creases will never flatten.
The lumpy chairs bunched up in rows
Along the wall with their vinyl covered cushions.
You'll never get comfortable.
Those who are conscious are confabulating in the corners,
Peering over their perfectly folded newspapers.
You'll never figure out what's wrong with me.
Seventies style shag carpet,
Without the languid wagging of a dogs tail.
I have to get out of here.
A white coat suspended over the shoulders,
The neck adorned with spy technology of some sort.
I don't know you; let me out of here.
Trapped in the Dungeon of modern day,
With torturous devices and the fresh smell of alcohol.
I can't escape.
© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved
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