Draft: Soliloquy of the Pharmacy Technician

I'll prove to you I'm not a robot.
Under halogen lights persists
some furious sameness, like the
dust settled on the pillshelf's lowest
row, each speck spreading
from the other. I count by fives
the minutes of the day's minutes into
orange vials with SAF-T tops,
marching rat poison and anticonvulsives
five wide on a plastic tray,
confirming NDCs and UPCs and oxy
in a sea of little pills and pours.
The pharmacists are all women
with deadbeat or longgone husbands.
The women make the bread in their matching
scrubs. I'm sporting khakis and tie, a
technician. When they go home after shifts
when the sun's already down,
do their men eye them, their curves
slighted by the navy blue, the burgundy
hues? Do their husbands bat an eye
and have dinner ready? I go home to a duplex and close the door and lock it
quickly because I can't know my neighbors,
I count by fives the brussell sprouts and
sometimes, saying grace to myself, I'll tell
Jesus which pharmacy I work at and
how can I help him.