At the Pharmacy

Gray hairs and wrinkled faces

Sit in disgruntlement.

Why does it take so long?

A number here and there,

And another shuffles over

To pick up their poison.

Only one window dispenses them.

The remaining gather up

The numbers and the people

To take their name and birthday

And tell them to sit down again

Only less half a ticket.

It’s always full and sometimes noisy

As the TV flashes in and out

Tuned to tell everyone

About the changing weather

And some new pill to try.

My number is called.

I guess I will go now.

 

 

© 2017 Valerie Hathaway

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