The Rexall sign seemed small but bigger than stars

from faraway. But when it falls to Earth and you stand

next to it in a museum, it is giant, the King, the Rex,

of the displays. Some people thought the Rex was for Rx,

just prescriptions, but it was so much more. That sign

didn’t have to flash; it was constant, like the sun and moon.

It held the past – handkerchiefs, hairnets, garters, rouge –

behind its bold assertion. Up close, the sign’s age is clear,

its intricate organs wired in place. Its light is gone,

but its husk is enough to remind us of Aunt Mid’s Salve,

bright Tangee lipstick, smell of antiseptic, perfume testers,

candy. A sign from the time when phone numbers began with nouns:

Davis, Lakeside – when we believed everything had a remedy.