Sterile

My shirt has a coffee stain from yesterday.

I haven't slept, and the air in this lobby

is trying to scrub the humanity off my bones.

A heavy floor waxer hums down the hall,

spitting out the scent of synthetic lemon and bleach.

It’s the smell of things that have been

scoured until they stopped breathing.

I feel like a smudge on a clean window.

In the elevator, I looked down at the corner.

A green plastic cap from an IV line

was lying against the metal door track.

I wanted to pick it up, to have something

to hold besides my own shaking hands,

but I was afraid of the cleanliness.