it’s horrible — I’m sorry, but it is.
like walking through a cut
and ruined forest
stacked with armchairs
and splash-proof paint. all these human things, all
broken. and their faces
are not expressionless either,
which is worse;
they’re awful, like diseased trees,
twisted out of kilter. it’s strange;
the space for pain
and wet uncertainty, and old clothes
straining in their chairs. and the music is bad,
and the nurses, dull
as plastic cups
of flat tea, burning hot
without sugar
and sterile. and the sunlight
comes sterilised too, and dry,
as though the windows
were all treated
to make heat
kill flowers growing.