Lisa Williams
a glass of milk
He found her although he lives the
other side of town, only comes every other day now. Not many people use him,
preferring to pick it up when they shop.
The familiar sounds of his approach.
A chink of glass bottles followed a hum of the float. A wet cough from decades
of Capstans. He noticed what we didn’t. Monday’s milk still there on her well
swept step.
Just doing his job he told us later
at her hospital bed.
Hadn’t hesitated.
Elbow shoved the door to find her
fallen; bruised and dehydrated still holding the note ‘No milk today.’
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