The Drugstore

The backroom was always chilly,

stacked with empty boxes to be broken down.

The carpet damp from dirt, snow or rain,

smelling of disel and sweat and

tattered sweatshirts left wet.

Pharmacy, that minature world

of bottles standing in tight rows,

and the person scrapping pills

with his putty knife

from one side of his blue tray

to the collection funnel,

usually the most knowledgable

in the store.

Twenty, thirty, forty, fifty,

then banging out a label

on his black typewriter.

Me, called to recieving,

unloading trucks of new merchandise

Stocking shelves, setting seasonal displays,

resetting it all, taking it down,

again and again, inventorying stock

asked to manage with less hours

as if shrinking payroll would speed

production, leaving things done and undone,

the first role of many I would play.