in a minute

you succumb
to the cold and go
to the minute clinic
at the local drugstore.
you take a number
and sit next to moses
and Bathsheba,
also both
sniffing and
sneezing with balled
wads of pastel
Kleenex in
their hands and
tucked flowerly
into their shirts,
or blouses.
it has come this.
under the bright flicker
of store lights,
your lungs
and sinuses at
the mercy of medication
dealt casually
from the hands of
a child
behind the glass
who has never heard
of john lennon,
singing about
him and yoko eating
chocolate cake
from a bag over
the muzak system.