I rode past two pharmacies,
each brighter than the fading sun,
containing shelves of white plastic bottles
with red caps.
The caps glowed under the fluorescent lights,
like embers in a fire,
ready to catch and burn.
Hands filled these bottles,
each with their own story —
gnarled, yellowed, but
quick with assembly.
These red and white omens are
not unlike the emergency sign I sit next to.
The red and white sticker stands out against
the dark night sky.
A beacon, promising life after disaster.
Was the color choice obvious to them?
Seeing red, white, red, white
for hours a day —
did the hands learn to equate
the contents of the bottles
to cures?
If I pulled the cold metal handle
and leapt through,
would I find salvation?
So It Goes 