Turnstile

Turnstile

The mornings have strange echoes,

old bones creek

to the sound

of digitized Elvis recordings.

Medication is passed out

in small pastel cups,

baring the lipstick stains

of clients past.

But the flowers

are always new,

the dust has

no time to settle,

the wheels of the chairs

have been oiled.

It is nice, yes,

but only creates tears

or a false smile,

from a not so new set

of man made teeth.

What is expected?

And the door is a turnstile

that only few people

can cross both ways.

Reviews

[Robin]

poetic look at a crossroad few see ... captured well in your words