Sharps (revised)

The door is alarmed. Our limbs, chemically
charmed into tremor. Arms
crack in an arrhythmic dance.

*

The doors open themselves.
Shears are sheathed in plastic,
cameras nestle on the ceiling,
muscled orderlies ogle monitors.

*

The corners curve, dull us
against intention and chance.

*

The sharps are kept in tiny lockers:
the codeine, the paper clip, the notebook spiral,
the lighter, the knife.

*

Under the stuttering florescent lights there’s a book
called “Patient Rights.”

*

Some skulls
cage razor-winged moths. Others are padded
with quilted cloth.

*

Six thirty brings the white coat
show, the call for confession, the daily
procession: commander and commanded
screamers and even-handed.
We lie. We lie. We lie.

*

At nine we line up to look through one-way
double panes, watch the dusty world
move in two directions.
So many busy people – the mystery of having
things to do.

The second floor gives a view
of the crotches of people in cars.

Faint stains reflect on the window.
Oval prints of human oil where
we set our foreheads on the glass.

Too tired or proud
to stand, we lean to watch
the crotches pass.

*******
This is a revision of the first poem I wrote for this blog back in March, 2008.