Our milkman died this morning. The cul-de-sac residents
were all left empty bottled on their doorsteps. No cereal, no tea.
Of course, it’s a tragedy. Our thoughts are with him,
with the family, with the next of kin, despite not knowing his name.
The trees will shed their leaves, patch the concrete and paths,
the sun will ascend, high and hot between the shaggy clouds,
the traffic lights will blink, the amber bulbs will flutter
above the busker who stands half-street half-gutter,
the sky will turn orange and then red and then black,
welcoming back the stars to the nightly earth show,
and the students will howl and bellow as they exit the pubs,
stagger through the streets slurring their favourite songs,
and they’ll flock the burger vans for chips and greasy grub,
they’ll wake up hungover and promise themselves never again,
and the night will howl and hush again,
and the sun will rise at dawn again,
and tomorrow, there’ll be milk on our doorstep.