the Rexall drugstore

it was a long

steel counter that curved

at both ends,

with

red vinyl capped stools

that spun

around.

my record

being ten.

but we ordered grilled

cheese

sandwiches

and cokes,

a paper tray full of French

fries.

from the woman behind

the counter,

a pen

in her hair.

lipstick and rouge,

the crease of her breasts,

white,

and begging

to be viewed.

we were kids.

in out of the rain, the fields

too wet,

a Saturday

with nothing to do.

we'd linger with comic

books

off the rack until

the manager,

a thin man

wearing a thin tie would

chase us out, back into

the rain.