Milk

The milk has gone warm, left on the porch for near an hour.
The flies have got to it, too,
And I don't suppose the dog wants it.

I'll bring it in, anyways--perhaps put it in the fridge for later.
Nope.
There's last week's bottle--that too, left on the porch.

I should have the milkman deliver it some other time: later, as the morning carries on.
On habit, I don't get up before nine--late nights at the steel foundry and all.
Oh, but how I do enjoy my milk. Cornelius does too. Gruffy ol' dog. Needs it for his bones.

Wonder if the Times is out on the lawn.