The pharmacy smells like synthetic lime

The pharmacy smells like synthetic lime

and I am nine years old again,

counting the pin-prick holes in the grime

and waiting for the sharp, cold start of pain.

A yellow leak has mapped out a shore

on the acoustic tile directly above the bed.

It looks like a country I’ve seen before

in a book I haven't actually read.

The toddler in booth four begins to scream

and the nurse asks me if I’m ready yet.

I’m still tracing that old, porous stream,

trying to remember what I was told to forget.