Snake Oil

The salesman all but promised her
That she would rise up dancing from
Her sickbed if she’d care to pay
Two-fifty for his healing salts
Or even better yet a five
For his elixir that would surely cause
The demon fever to hightail it back to hell.

So she bought them both from him because,
As she later told her eldest son,
The poor deluded man so clearly stored
All his fragile faith in opaque jars
That she could tell held little more than
Spit and wishes mixed into the sand
When compared to her much higher trust
In the sure remedial power of
The laughter that burst forth from her each time
That she held them in her shrunken hands
And marveled at how gullible he was.