Hayward Pharmacy
A turkey hangs akimbo in
the front door
wings and legs awry on
small
brass pivots, bright red
snood gone gray
from fright the last
customer perhaps
a pious Pilgrim with a
sharpened ax
ducking in for some last
minute shopping,
paper plates, night light,
milk and four
small cans of Del Monte
gravy, maybe
a pack of Parliaments for
Miles Standish,
aspirin for the long grim winter
ahead
The dead stacked, biding
their time, waiting for the
ground
to thaw, for the Hayward
Pharmacy to once again
open it’s doors,
clear the cobwebs
from the old Wedgewood
mortar and pestle,
blow the dust off moldering
rows of
single roll Bounty
Diamond Strike Anywhere
matches shoe string
licorice Clorox
in small pint jugs lined
theme books in assorted
Colors all of it marked
way, way up
phantom apothecary catering
to
Translucent restless souls
afflicted with
Full Moon Fever or a touch
of catarrh,
Midnight remedies at the
corner of Fourth and
Knowles.
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