Spilt Milk. A poem by H. R. Gibs

I have become very good at spilling milk.
Almost daily, loose lips dripple pearly white blobs onto my sweatshirt. Or,
with a wobble, a weak wrist will let slip
Some great dairy secret all over the table.

Hands – they waver wildly in new decrees
Mad legs unfurling clumsily, as usual,
In the wrong place at the wrong time –
Kicking over the milk jug placed there to keep things all nice and proper.

Damage be done. I shan’t cry about it –
Not the stench, nor the yellowed curdling
Or the wastage which makes the cloth sour.
Pasteurise, kill the parasite – if you mend these bones and I’ll try to keep my limbs at bay.

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