Sunday, early morning...

I am walking in my garden, writing notes for a new poem.  The year is 1924, and I am 50-years old.  In the next moment, I am transported into a strange room with white metallic walls.  The bright lights overhead are blinding.  There are no doors.  I find myself sitting in a fairly comfortable chair that is positioned in the middle of the room. The material of the chair is unfamiliar.  I examine the chair closely.  I hear a voice, look up and have to shield my eyes from the searing light.  I see a window on the wall of the room.  Through the window, I see people, and they are all staring at me.  When I get over the shock, I stand up and walk a bit shakily toward the window.  Through it, I see children and adults. As I stare, I notice that, to my…