Clinic

There were babies in her dreams,
dressed in pink frilly things,
babies with rounded,
glossy cheecks
like greasy magazine pages.

On waiting room tables
with cut-off addresses
to shield whoever's behind
the counter, taking
my names and my
insurance,
assurance for all yet to 
come.

She is in pink plastic,
latex gloves under 
telescopic lights,
arena lighting and subway
tiles scrubbed raw
each morning with
bleach.

Mildewed ammonia 
hangs stale in the air,
babies, like she'd wanted
since girlhood,
with pretty curls
and cherry lips.

Wood=paneled walls
and dusty fake palms,
waiting for the door
and shuffle,
maybe even a white coat.
Maybe this won't be so bad.

Not enough to show her,
baby in her dreams
leaving,
Out the door
without even a marker.

No "Baby"
fromt he old days,
aged 21 days.

No pink frills,
and the dreams came in rogue waves.