Toddler rests on daddy’s shoulder,
turns his head to view me
as a curiosity. They sit
and wait to be called in.
A sudden whiff of stale cigar
and the room fills with shadow
of a man large enough for two
chairs. He comes forward
with a trembling phone discussing 
cement, his hands are surprisingly 
soft and he ends his conversation
with details of his defective ticker.

In and out we come and go
for the pills
that will extend something
in the body politic of our lives.
The toddler toddles,
the cementer dawdles at the magazine 
rack full of old Golf Digests,
draws out The Winners Issue