Antiseptic

The floor wax has a biting, citrus edge

that fails to hide the scent of something old.

It’s scrubbed into the grout and every ledge

to keep the rot from taking any hold.

I sat four hours beside a plastic cup,

the water sweating rings into the tile.

The latex and the bleach were welling up

in every breath and every hollowed aisle.

It’s clean, they say. It’s sterile as a bone.

But under all the soap and winter mint,

the air still tastes of copper and of ozone,

and shadows that the lights can’t even tint.