Ode to the Lab Coat
by Lauren Johnson
White as unwritten mornings, stiff with starch,
you hang beside the door in patient light.
Your pockets yawn like questions in the dark,
stitched deep enough to cradle wrong and right.
You are no cape, yet still you steady hands
that tremble slightly over measured glass.
You smell of paper charts and careful plans,
of antiseptic futures yet to pass.
One day I’ll wear you, armor made of thread,
buttoned against the fevered rush of doubt.
Your sleeves will frame the words I’ve often read
until they turn from theory into clout.
O coat, stand ready silent, bright, and plain
to guard the pulse that whispers through each vein
