Sky clear, pure aquifer
air cleansing as a cold sweat
I push Theo up to refill
my prescription. Clouds raise
and lower the light, curtaining

the green brown lawns. A leaf scoots
at long intervals of stillness.
I stop to level with his pointed finger
and say golf cart, riding lawnmower
in answer to his cries. I stop to pick up a stray

golf ball from a lawn backing the course
and make a little present of it, a bottle
identical to the one we keep at home
shattered in the curb, rubber nipple estranged
from the splinters of its plastic breast.

To refill my Keppra, we cut through the littered
pine tree corner of the parking lot
where semis slumber nights in defiance
of the sign and take the back alley
past the chain-linked loading docks, the pallets

stacked with bags of mulch and potting soil.
I haven’t had a seizure in four years. Still I take
my antiseizure pills. Birds tweedle, cheep.
Theo leans forward in his seat. It may be
time to renew my license.