My heavy eyes,
Tired with the day’s unfolding—
A good day of work
Of writing
Of crossing off the list,
Even running—

a warm January morning before sun,
Rounding the squares of a familiar block,|
My feet heavy and light and heavy again . . .
I found my skull cap, but not my gloves,
But it was time—

No stars, no moon, just dark—
A milk truck,
Calling me back to an early time
When we’d have a milk box on the porch
And the milk would be left there for us
In a metal box that smelled like … sour milk, of course.

Where have the milk boxes gone?
Where the hands that filled them?
Sucked into the modern economy, I guess
Sucked into the earth forever,
As I turn a corner, running home.