A man, with a dozen small pieces of paper
compared to my two, knew I was waiting
behind him at the pharmacy xerox machine,
and might have said: “You have so few?
Please go ahead,” but feigned ignorance.
I sighed, settling in hot-black impatience,
though he was under duress, documenting his health
for some insurance company bureaucrat.
I observed the back of his crimped neck—
its old man and the sea look, balding head
soft as a baby’s, slumped shoulders,
trousers pulled up high with a tightened belt.
His hands unfurled the machine cover
time and again, placing each scrap square
in the center like a photo inside its frame.
I could have advised: fit two on a legal-size page.
Instead, I glanced over the store shelves,
lingered at the Q-tips and lotions,
the bright, flamingo children’s aspirin of my youth.
I didn’t know they were still being made.
I could see my mother’s hand, popping the cap,
dropping two in my palm, taste their sweet,
tangy flight down my throat. How I slipped into bed,
fever lightened by Mother’s caress. She sat
until I slept and must have had work to do, though
what, I’ll never know. The man in front of me
gathered his papers and turned to leave
without acknowledging my presence in any way
just as I must have turned from my mother
to the wall and fallen into night’s dreams.
-
Sweet cure
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 17 Number 6, on page 43
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