Contributor: JD DeHart

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A kind man in a lab coat
can sell me wares. Instruments
dot his walls like a strange
modernist décor. I cannot
read his writing.
The ladies at the front desk
seem polite enough. They call
my name with mechanical
mispronunciation.
I have signed in, resigned in,
and when I leave, I have a slip.
Somehow, the druggists can read
it, looking at it, nodding,
the scribbles bearing meaning.
They ask if I have any questions
for the pharmacist. I want to graze
the topic of immortality, but this
does not seem to be an good time.


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JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available from RedDashboard.