I'm little by little
inclined towards tea
but my flimsy tongue
needs something paler
to freeze
my buzz.
The bulb, freshly blown,
has scared me to the fridge
but the light inside
is kind enough
to showcase
the milk.
I guide it, drag it out,
slap mugs across the handles,
pull out the biggest,
fill it up with
a broken
lip.
And little by little
it sprinkles, trickles, leaks
and pisses me off
with more sticky germs
to wipe
away.
I pull out a funnel
and drain the scratched plastic
and down the mug
in three steady
milky
mouthfuls.
I'll sort it out,
I'll buy some more,
don't you worry.
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