Night Air and Bleach

The smell hits before the lights do—

sharp as the clack of nurses’ shoes

on linoleum polished with too much shine.

It sticks around like a rumor, rubbing alcohol

bleach, antiseptic — they’re less scent

than a quiet demand to stay alert,

to watch the night crawl through halls

that hold too many waiting people,

breath held tight in plastic chairs.

I keep the smell on my skin,

like a bad thought you can’t shake off,

a thin film you carry home, unwelcome,

and somewhere between the beep

and the shuffle, I’m remembering

how clean can feel like cold and empty.