The Milkman – a poem

The Milkman

 

A skin had formed over her hot chocolate,

Creasing clinging off her spoon –

Her grandmother’s bingo wings.

“I couldn’t get a regular rhythm,”

He had said.

Surely the milk could not be off?

She’d only bought it yesterday,

From the kind man whose hands

She imagined soft as clotted cream,

Pooling pennies in the lap of her fiver.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s