She was waiting in front of us
At the pharmacy counter
Of the drugstore,

Her forehead furrowed,
Her back bent
In an unmistakable gesture

Of inner pain, of mental pain,
Wearing pj’s and flip-flops, clutching
Her arm on her father’s arm—

Or was it her boyfriend? Hard to tell
(Pain blends distinctions) and on
Her white wrist

A hospital bracelet, her name
And birthdate, 1982—   
The year I started college—   

She’s 22 years old.
I want to tell her something,
I say, “it’ll get better — that’s a nice tattoo”—   

Jenni plonks down
The checkbook for my Paxil, steadily
Leans down and writes the date, the money.

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