Four Walls and a Lock

That gas station, off the highway, smelled

of blue disinfectant, thick and sweet.

And for a second, I was propelled

back to that other place, the stale,

cloying air of junior high.

The chipped green paint on the stall door

where some hand, desperate for a mark,

had carved initials, three or four.

I remember the cold porcelain,

the fear that rose, a bitter tide.

She wept, a small and muffled din,

while I just listened from inside.

Not knowing what to do or say,

just trapped, until the bell would ring.

Waiting for the world to peel away.

Just listening to that broken thing.

The disinfectant burned my nose today.

Some things, you thought you'd wiped away.