Scrubs

She sits in the day lounge

wearing hospital scrubs.

There’s a fresh paint smell,

combined with carbolic.

She doesn’t raise her head

when we come in. Being

dosed up with anti-depressants.

There’s a small man muttering,

wringing his hands by the snooker table.

I gaze out through the barred windows

at the institutional garden.

It is cold. All the trees

have bare knuckles.

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