On the Souring of Milk
Looking past pesto, salsa and eggs,
a lone beer
on the ledge of the open door.
Cool air flees over jam, bouncing off
grapes through
perforated plastic.
Beady water clings on yogurt cups.
If only the neighbors could be so lucky.
Basking in the tropics of irresponsibility;
a rusty hinge left too long.
Good luck with your breakfast, my friend.
I’ll spoil if you let me.
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