Youth

Everything tastes like black licorice.
The window sticks.
The cold metal of my watch
adjusts to warmth
by just this contact
with my arm.
The symmetry
of clock tower and hospital
disorients me looking down
after the elevator opens
to another window
not just stuck but sealed shut
for our safety.
In the waiting room
the carpet pattern swirls
with violet and red
while a woman taps a cigarette
into a soda can.
She says, almost to no one,
that her youth has fallen
off her like a snakeskin.
Only after she has burnt
through half the pack do
I finally clear my throat
and say I don’t think
she’s allowed to do that here.