The garbage truck did not
Come yesterday, on the day
I chose to put out my most

Precious offering—stores of milk
3 years frozen, a 30 gallon
Bag full. Rain fell

As I lay in bed, my milk still waiting
On the street. Today it pools
Below black plastic,

A single ribbon streaming
Across black asphalt toward
Small eddies of oil. The week’s

Runoff turns purple, pink, blue as if
Resting on a bubble.
Back inside the house I watch

Furtively like Miriam behind
The bulrushes. From the dark heap
The milk leaks like dread, like hope.