The View from Room 3324

I sleep in a bed where the infirm have lain.
People come to this building to die every day;
I know them in whispers, but also out loud,
"Adult code blue," shouts a voice 'bove the crowd.
From the floor to the ceiling, the walls to the drawers,
everything's muted, everything's pure.
There are no signs of living, no scuffs anywhere
to show that before me lungs have breathed in this air
which is always a-buzz with false lights and machines;
they're muffled by day, but roar when I dream.
I'm alone in this room, save a plant on a shelf
which I scouted, and purchased, and brought here myself.
'Neath the sink there is poison disguised as free food;
it's probably coating the gray baseboards, too.
It feeds roving rodents and gives them their ends;
it kills every insect- it robs me of friends.
'Tween these walls I've seen one face that wasn't like mine:
'twas that of a beetle. Black. Shiny. Divine.
I needed to see it, for its presence allayed
my distrust of a place that can't even sustain
the life of a creature so hardy and small
that it feeds on refuse and resides in a wall.
I stared at the walls and they stared blankly back
so I took up my pen and crayons to distract
my ears from the droning, my eyes from the glare,
and my nose from offensively clean-smelling air.
My fingers have worked words of far-away lands
over and over, 'til my tongue understands
how to say "mirror", "hot", "soap", and "the door"
in Arabic, Spanish, and metaphor.
To each measured meal I add my own spice
of colored creation - imagination - life.
From the stroke of my hand and the edge of my mind
have come to be chickens and children and chimes.
I've visited ghettos, I've looked down on Earth,
I've consoled the downtrodden, I've reveled in mirth.
Truth be told, though I'm stuck here and seldom may leave,
it's not nearly as horrid as you may believe.
In three weeks I've done more than many still free
and I've digested more dreams than many who sleep.
So, friend, do not worry that I feel I'm alone
for I've my mind, and the Web, and books, and my phone.
Sure, ill people come here each day and some die,
but many also come here to bring forth new life.

Part Two

Twelve years ago I sowed a seed
in life-promoting loam,
I lingered by a shade of time
and then I wandered home.
I've traveled o'er the world since then
to many distant lands
and seen many seeds wrapped in ground
by many different hands.
I, too, have planted many more,
I've seeded many minds;
I've watched my labors come to fruits
of many different kinds.
Some flourished without my hand
others withered with my care,
so it seems to matter not
whether one is there
forever after life is made
to pamper and to prune;
I returned home just yesterday;
My first seed? Yes, it grew.