Spilt Milk
I was always sure
hers would be the next call
delayed with some excuse
errands, car trouble,
dead phone.
I was always hers
until that last call,
the one that meant no more
calls were coming,
the one that ripped
the bowl of cereal
from my hands
and slammed it
to the laminated floor,
cornflakes floating
like life rafts
on the spreading sea of milk,
blueberry islands
and porcelain-piece
prominences projecting
from whiteness
as it made its way
under the refrigerator.
I sank down and sat
right in it
my slippered feet sliding
a bit as I splotched down.
The wave of milk rolled
blueberry islands in arcs
as the drips landed
clear salt water
homogenizing quickly
as it rippled into spilt milk.
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