Corridor Air

It hits you

the second the elevator doors

slide open, a sigh of sterile air.

Disinfectant, sharp and clean,

fighting a losing battle

with something underneath—

sick skin, stale coffee,

the faint, sweet tang of IV fluids.

It coats the tongue,

this metallic film,

makes your eyes water a bit.

A sound, too,

a low moan from somewhere,

then the quick roll of wheels.

My mother's room,

a small square of quiet fear,

and that smell

clinging to her gown,

to the magazines

no one will read.