Red Ink

The pharmacy is bright and loud,

the floor is wet from winter boots.

I’m standing in the tired crowd,

digging through my pocket’s roots.

And there is Mrs. Gable, thin,

fighting for a nickel’s worth.

Her coupon is a paper sin

she’s clutching for its meager birth.

Her hands are shaking, small and blue,

her purse is like a bird that died.

I’m just buying a burrito.

She’s looking for a place to hide.