Neighborhood Drug Store
I squander what ought to feed a loan shark,
watch the clerk's hand snap;
he hands me nepenthe
over the counter. An old TV whirs.
In the back, the owner's boy undresses
supermodels with his eyes. I uncork
the pharmacy's childproof cap,
become the parent of a maimed rodent.
I let my son take the brunt of a snake's wrath.
Bones crunch as I take my leave;
I take another pill, escape rented thoughts.
© Jeffrey Calhoun
Loch Raven Review Spring 2006 Vol. 2, No. 1
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