My father clears his throat a sound

My father clears his throat, a sound

like gravel dragged across the floor.

The pharmacist is counting blue pills,

eyes fixed on the screen,

ignoring the way the air in here

refuses to be shared.

He holds a plastic bag of change

and receipts folded into tiny squares,

ink bleeding into the creases.

I cannot read the names of the towns

he carried in his pockets,

only the way his shoulders pull inward,

making himself small enough

to fit through a door that isn't quite open.