I would watch the milk man with his
horse and wagon go down the street
in the morning from my bedroom
window. I must have been two because
when my sister was born we moved, and
my bedroom was in the back of the house,
with no window on the street. He left our
milk in a gray tin box on the back porch. That
was in Springfield. Later, when we moved to Detroit,
we had a milk chute on the side of the house.
It had a little door on the inside and a little door on the
outside so the milkman, who now drove a truck,
could put the milk in and we could get it
out. On cold winter mornings, the frozen milk
rose up over the top of the brown bottle.
For years I saved milk caps in a kitchen
drawer. Just saved them, never did anything with them.
After the heroin epidemic came, everybody sealed up
those milk chutes so no skinny thieves could
climb in the house that way.