(1) Now and Then The Milkman.Revised Version. (2) Sad Poem.

                    1. 

Now and Then The Milkman. (Revised Version)


This morning the Milkman came
Humping bottles of memories of school days
To light up my pre - dawn blues
With armfuls of magic.-
Crate fulls of white joy horse drawn into
                                     the playground
Under a vermilion sky
To the rhythm of tambourine hooves.
Bottles of milk laid out in class room order
Perfect for birds to plunder
And infants to pick and choose.

And as I stooped down early to grab my share,
The crack of a knuckle hard into my face,
Harris, the Mafia boss of playground order,
Was already hard at work
Refining his natural trade,
Brute labour that went unpaid
From my store of pirate booty
That is, until this morning.

Today, at 9am, I paid off this former class mate
With a Co-op cheque in place of gold and silver
And a loud n cheery "How`s the Missus Mate?"
I watched him scuttle, crab like, down the pathway,
Then scramble sideways into his skew-whiff van
That shook like a broken carillon.

This van is stashed with unwashed empties,
A quorum of left over pints, frayed cardboard boxes,
Egg trays,- and trying to stay securely out of sight,                  
An unkempt school kid squatting in the cabin,
Slumped like a captive Squaw.
"His daughter feigning sick", a neighbour guesses,
And I nod in assent, but in truth, I am not so sure.
She has been labelled his model princess,
A starlet on hold, but a perfect horror at school,
Not even his actual kid, some say, but the child
                          of the Rocker next door:
Nothing pertaining to Harris is ever certain.

Later I shall make free with this his produce,
A scrunched up packet containing slips of cheese,
A see through plastic box crammed tight with eggs,
Two carton loads of soured history lessons.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
March 9th. - 15th.  April 17th. 2013.
Revised, March 29th. 2014. 

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                   2.

             Sad Poem.


When your Honey Child dies
And the cut flowers fade
In the vase placed by her bed,
It is said that a perfect world
                                crumbles.
And not only her world
But our universe dies
Like a light turned off at the wall.

Please tell me now, what is left over
To remind us of all that is lost,
Blanked out for a vacant forever?
Sadly, I can retrieve no answer,
Only this hushed feral wind
Scratching my locked back door.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 7th. 2013. 
For Anne, Violette and Sharon, with sadness and love.