from this week in July, 1970 (I was 25)
Medicine man mind your apothecary
your manners are atrocious;
your father knew better,
respect.
He’d never leave a customer
to stand unattended in some corner of the store
without so much as a good morning
or how can I help you today.
And you could see him mix the potions
and package them himself.
And you point, “Top shelf, middle of aisle D.”
When you left the store in the old days
it was known who was sick and what he had,
and you felt better
because the prescription was for someone,
even while he was preparing it.
Where the hell is aisle D anyway?
Yes.
You did feel better, and another thing,
small to you maybe-
you use these imprinted slick bags.
Your father used green paper
tied with string that came up through a hole in the counter.
Secure,
a package recognizable on the street.
A dollar seventy-three,
God, it used to be forty-nine cents.
Nobody calls you Medicine Man either,
do they.
We all called your father that.
Apothecary-
that sounded mediciney.
Pharmacist.
Sounds like a farm worker.
Did you get my change right?
Oh, and don’t forget the Green Stamps.
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