Faces and torsos loom toward me
From the magazine wall at the drugstore.
Many in red gowns with a slight breeze
(proven to sell), with big, bright teeth
Bared in grins. The toothpaste, mere feet
Away, waits and promises to bleach
Your smile. Half embarrassing, half
Enticing, the drugstore’s products draw the eye,
Are handled furtively, examined, smelled.
The pharmacist notices when you select mouthwash.
The pharmacist yawns, plucks pills from a drawer.
They clink like gravel in their orange tube.
Itch creams, fungal ointments, pore cleansers,
Feminine family-planning products:
You grip them cautiously, like euphemisms.