In Ireland the Notes to the Milkman Are Poems
I came down this morning, wary of you, hot day and cool shorts and furry legs. I counted up just how much you are due, I started my listing, a dozen eggs. I remembered your jacket, slick as silk, Pushing my body to the pantry door. I went back to my task, two quarts of milk, I felt your soft disgust, “you bleeding whore.” I crossed out cream, it is too dear for me, I almost smiled when I wrote half-and-half, And that’s when I saw we can never be; Not that you laugh, it is the way you laugh, You can’t even bother to seem to care. That will be all. Please do not...
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