CLARA SILVERSTEIN

Out to Buy Milk

I'm following this road,
my windshield spattered with salt,
snowbanks slumped at the edges,
a red stutter of stop signs.

What I'm carrying is useless,
Kleenex and a butterscotch drop
that escaped from cellophane,
change rattling by the gearshift.

Exhaustion trails me:
I'm staggering
under the weight of your smallness,
your serrated voice, your sticky

tracks up and down my arms,
your plastic animals, slimy
with drool, your hunger fishtailing
from blankets I lay gently on you.

My path is scraped clean
by plows, the distance like a picture
I once drew with too much white space,
the background filled with scribbles.