Wednesday, August 13, 2014


(Poetry Scales 17)

The milk has soured, of that there is no doubt.
Forming chunks,
Emitting aromas no one should abide.
Cheesy clumps,
Floating here and there and sticking to the sides.
The milk has soured.

Due to the hour, you drink straight from the jug.
In the dark,
At two AM without turning on a light.
Not so smart,
When you’re half a sleep, but thirsty in the night.
The milk has soured.

As bad as rotten milk is, what follows is worse:
Blowing chunks,
Emitting most of dinner, all of dessert.
Phlegmy clumps,
Belched eruptions of acidic spews and squirts.
It doesn’t happen.

The milk has soured. You can’t even taste it.
Back to bed,
And back to sleep; your perspective having turned.
Curdled dreams,
You think your nightmares are normal, even restful.
The milk has soured.

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