Lingering Scent

The automatic doors slid open,

a cold breath, a chemical sheen.

Not quite clean. Bleach and something else,

a metallic tang, like old coins.

It wraps around you, thin and tight.

Not just the air, but the white walls,

the quiet beeps, the distant cries.

It’s in the plastic chairs,

the worn magazine covers.

That smell of latex, of fear,

of bodies that won't quite mend.

It coats the tongue, a dry film.

Lingers on clothes, on hair.

Hours later, back home,

I catch a whiff, a faint ghost.

Not just the antiseptic, but that other part,

the sick, cold truth. It's on my skin.

It settles, deep inside the lung.