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The fridge swings open A shaft of bleak light parts the curtains of dark. I bask in the glow, While the hum rolls over me like a gentle tide. I grasp the milk carton: object of my quest. The vessel flexes gently under my fingertips. It sloosh slooshes softly as it settles on the counter I tip the carton, and pour myself a glass. The milk flows in a delicate arc: pure, white, frothy. From whence came such bounty? Such succulence? What enterprising soul first examined a cow’s fleshy bits? What mockeries did the other cave people cast upon him, Fearful of the unknown? What caveparties was he not invited to? From what mammoth butcheries turned away? But yet, he never faltered, And when hot, unhomogenized milk spurted forth, He knew triumph. Triumph in the face of stigma, adversity And basic common sense. So can we all fight, For the unattainable, the insane And fight with romance, and frenzy. For in the end, though we may not remember the dream, We will remember the dreaming. I head back to bed, And press into my mattress. For tomorrow, I must seize the day As a certain caveman would an udder.
Midnight Milk
Connor Chaney
