Rental

The light in the pharmacy is dying.

It blinks over the aisles of cheap shampoo

and the rows of cards for people I don't know.

I’m waiting for the bottle with my name on it.

I looked down at the counter while I waited.

My knuckles have become a stranger's work,

thick and slightly crooked at the top.

They are the same hands that held my father's steering wheel.

I made a fist and watched the skin go white.

It’s dry and papery, starting to crack

at the joints, like an old coat I’m just wearing

until the real owner comes to take it back.