Poetry

Milk Caps

3 April 2019

She told me that her grandmother used to hoard the gold and red caps
The bottled branded M
Wash and return

600ml
It didn’t mean anything
Her silver hair blinded her left eye, her head

Did that tilt when I said
“I am using it as a flower pot”
The verbena sprouted as though its seed knew to follow the glass formation

The bottom was still scarred with rust, I tried to pick it off with my finger-nails like the skin
Left over from a
Popped pimple

No success
It sits on the birds-eye maple
Stained by a ring that I can’t scrub off.


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