On my way down Kutner I spot the old
ladys with cracked hands who sit every
Sunday and chat over tea and donuts.
I take a left on Marshall Ave and
around the corner passing through
Weston. As I see the construction
workers carving wood plates imagining the splinters they went
home with that day.
Lastly I'm here.
The market.
As I lay My gallon jug on the counter I
see the young board cashier who
seems indifferent to my smile and
thanks as I leave the shop.
YOU ARE READING
Milk (Poem)
PoetryThis is just another poem I came up with in creative writing club today. Hope you enjoy! :) Inspired by "Those Winter Sundays" poem written by:Robert Hayden
