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.
Whew! That's a lot of work for the pay.
Ron