The milkman

by Ellen Stone
     and I rode
the blue hills before dawn,

     barns, sprinkled building blocks
along the grey roadway,

                tanker hugging the curves.
He was young and I was ready.

What sparse words we had
  for each other, thin as the stream of blue milk

                    he unloosed from the bulk tanks
       chilled gush sluicing through silver

pipe into the truck while we sank
on hay bales, slid into each others fingers.
                How regular the lapping – tongues
    filling the milk house with liquid

                    rocking gentle as lake waves
rolling over sand banks, slowly seeping

in deep.  The milk tanks close,
emptying, filling.  Interrupting us,

            again, again, all through
the creamy morning light.
Ellen Stone taught special education for over 30 years in the public schools in Kansas and Michigan,  Her poems have appeared recently in Passages North, The Collagist, The Citron Review, The Museum of Americana, and Fifth Wednesday. She is the author of The Solid Living World (Michigan Writers’ Cooperative Press, 2013).  Ellen’s poetry has been nominated multiple times for a Pushcart prize and Best of the Net.

© 2018, Ellen Stone