Alphabet Soup Minuscule

J.C. Scheff

Milk’s Gone Sour


You rose over me,
Like the 6 a.m. fog on the interstate.
Comforted by the occasional times we held one another yet,
Turned off by the lack of consistency.

I push through,
I realize that even the fog has a place.
As I still search for mine,
I am aware it is time to cut my losses.

To continue to make myself known in a world where everyone is a stranger smiling,
And pretending that they are happy, if not content with what they have.

Happy with good mornings and good night’s that were never really mine,
But, were just on loan like a flute that had passed through many hands, many lips.

Joyous for the time I so foolishly gave up impulsively.

Yet, what is the area of time,
When only ones gives it?
Should this be measured by being  tucked away carefully in a bedroom?

Figuring the base times height, times width of bodies left regurgitating last week’s leftovers.
When the market is closed,
The milks gone sour
And alone is what you feel.

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