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. < ...

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