Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jun 2016
The milk man died last week.  I didn't
know him well, just enough to know his favorite
chew and how much he hated Fritos.

I knew his lover and her worn-out
windbreaker, her frizzled hair as gold
as her Marlboros.  I sold her a pack of silvers

once and she nearly snapped my neck.
They take (took?) their tobacco dead
seriously.  She hasn't come back

to work yet, though her five allotted
days of grief are over.  The empty
milk crates just aren't empty anymore.
Rick, you really ****** me up man.  Even if you were kind of an ***.
Written by
featherfingers  swpa
Please log in to view and add comments on poems