Milk Box
And there was Mr. Anderson, the milkman.
When we moved to a place more green
we moved the gray metal box with us
to the new stoop and sure enough, our first Tuesday
in new surroundings the same clink
of the bottles in their metal rack,
exchanged for the empties to be washed,
refilled and paper capped.
He in the same gray uniform, bow tie,
high peaked cap, same as all milkmen everywhere,
that box like a homing beacon, wherever
we had gone, he knew and would follow,
an assurance that at least some things would never change.
Until they did and the last empty bottles
unexchanged stood on the counter
like orphans for awhile, that became
vases for flowers on occasion or something
handy to water the plants, the orange
label fading. That metal box vanished into the mystery
first, what alternate use could it possibly have,
joined at some unnoticed time by the bottles it had held
and Mr. Anderson in his bow tie, he was pretty young,
what did he change into, we never knew.
Original Publication – The Moving Force Journal Issue 6 2022