flu shot

as you sit
in a plastic
red chair
at the crowded
drugstore
pharmacy
waiting your turn
for a flu
shot
your mind drifts
as you get sleepy,
falling into an
almost dream like
stupor in the haze
of lights
and piped in music.
you hum
to jim Morrison
singing people are
strange, closing
your eyes, tapping
your snow
boots against
the wet tiled floor.
it feels nice,
despite your
dripping nose
and headache. it's all
good until
the woman sitting
next to you,
who looks like
grandma moses,
taps you with
her cane and says,
hey, you're
touching me. move
over.