I'm bored with the faces;

Of the people in glass

From this seat I have sat in

A year and a half.

Formaldehyde eyeballs,

All glassy and blank,

Always too open

With nothing to thank.

The walls and their pale wash,

The floor with it, too

One hundred square tiles

Of a sickening hue.

I'm backwards by morning.

Night knows me too well.

I've been first class, express shipped

To this personal hell.

Upright and uptight,

I'm barred from the air.

I've been robbed of my sleep,

Though I've freedom to stare.

But I'm sick of the people,

This light in this room,

Swelled faces at nightfall,

My imminent doom.