In front of the Government Pharmacy
the silent, abandoned lives,
who live between one pill and another,
between one prescription and another,
between one queue and another,
file behind each other.
The sun arrives early/before the expected time,
as it always does,
and burns more/is hotter than the time before.
Rumours about missing pills,
or about new rules and signatures
that were designed while the queue was being formed
come running out of pharmacy
like over-speeding ambulances.

At the roundabout
the cars go around by heart and carelessly,
like rumours,
except those few who want to obey the rules
which not even the police
(their station next to the pharmacy is always closed)
obey, or even know.

Slowly slowly everyone is served.
despite their grumbling,
and the sun goes off quietly to rest
because the night in this neighbourhood of life
is a roundabout with closed streets.