Connecticut, 1989

 

 

The rumble of the milk trucks

grinding up

Chester Main Road

slacking and then

roaring

as we lay on our

backs in the road

our fingers weary

waiting for the slow

curving variations in the growl

 

these were no ordinary

milk trucks

those of our past

with jolly

drivers with

caps and insignias

these were 18

wheeled behemoths

crawling up

a hill a mile

long to drain

the milk of dozens

of cows who

are always complaining about

the early morning

 

we sat, wrote,

edged,

gulped coffee

and steaks

at any time

 

the day was fluid

and the nights were

made of

such that we

could not discern

the rolling

clocks

and the simultaneous

droning of

IT

 

we stored it

in the eaves

words dripped from

greasy fingers

and fled from

air-deprived

pasts

only to ascend

to the same

 

we are no longer

we

but we still ooze

words

I’m not sure

where the

words ooze

from

but they keep showing

up

under foot