A Creak of Complaints
Sleep was not coming from my bed,
so I rose and dressed, and stepped
into a raw cold morning of soaked
and smutty fog. The front door open,
it creaked complaints, and I started
for the milk. Real milk. Milkman milk.
Glass bottled milk. Two pints a day.
The magpies’d garnered one silver
foil cap, a sufficiently curious object
that caught up their shining affection,
and so flew off with it, and abandoned
the milk to five stroppy grey cats.
They had no more desire to depart
than I to engage in singsong hissing.
Perhaps I should rather return my-
self to bed, leaving the milk to cats.
Found and remixed text from my Journals
of Winter 1991 and “Bleak House” by C. Dickens.