In Which an Androphobic Waits in a Queue at the Pharmacy

The boxes on the wall judiciously  
neglect to use rhetorical questions.
Their corners go along suspiciously;
Nijinskys with Neitzschean preclusions.
The full fucoid compliment of the line
discards its parts on boulevards, the source
of malady, to its final design
via ignorant automatic doors,
reaching its ultima thule, at last,
(despite the fact the card machine has blown)
facing the aquarelle smile of some lass,
who afterwards provides travel info
and quips at least another day has passed,
so they can take their querimony home.