Clinic Air

The automatic door sighed.

A breath, cold, clean.

Where every fear resided,

a sharp, sterile scene.

A tang of bleach,

then something else,

a sweetness out of reach.

Or maybe just cells

dying, or being saved.

The white tiles gleamed.

A silent promise craved.

The light, too brightly beamed.

This scent, a constant hum.

A warning. A faint prayer.

My breath, it would become

this very clinic air.