Published
They say not to cry over spilled milk
But what if it was a big glass,
Can I cry then?
Can I feel the grief tied to the loss of this large liquid?
It’s now reached the once clean ground.
Was it even milk,
Or maybe white water?
I guess I’ll never know,
The stain of this syrup failed to reach my palate.
Its spread to the cold linoleum.
I’ve always been an optimist,
If a glass is half, full does it spill more?
Maybe if it was half gone it wouldn’t have spilled at all.
It’s deep in the tattered carpet.
Who’s to say a hand toppled the beverage,
What about an earthquake?
The shaking ground should take precedence over the spreading spill
But my eyes still seem stuck to this plight.
It’s everywhere.
Was it even my responsibility?
Regardless of the answer,
I always find myself reaching down
To soak up the mess.
—Connor