Disinfectant

The janitor’s bucket is a lemon-scented threat.

It’s the same yellow plastic as the one by the labs

where the air is always three degrees too cold.

I sit on the paper-covered table

and listen to the hum of the vent—

a metallic, recycled breath

that tastes like pennies and sterile gauze.

The doctor’s hands are wet with alcohol,

that cold isopropyl sting

that clears the head.

He tells me I’m fine, but I’m looking

for the exit sign’s red, electric pulse

while I wonder which part of me

is already starting to fail.