Like Milk Spilt on a Stone

One summer, you fell

Into the habit

Of buying iced chais

At a drive-through good

At baristaring,

And, at the day’s end

Often had a cup

With a bit of ice

Ready for the trash—

Usually, you’d toss

The splash of water

And leftover cubes

Into the grass,

If there weren’t a bin

To toss the whole cup.

Sometimes the water

Had a bit of milk

Still swirled within it,

Which meant white splatter

Might stain the pavement

Beside where you parked,

And when you saw that

Ghost pattern of milk—

Abstract on pavement—

You’d think of Yeats’s

Tiny poem, Spilt Milk,

And its last line, Like

Milk spilt on a stone.

Why a stone per se?

There’s an intricate

Elaboration

Of the threads of milk

Over broken stone.

Was there a reason

More personal than

The poem? Likely, yes.