Poem: Pints

Pints

Written October 14, 2017

When I lived in England
I rinsed the empties under water and
lined the bottles up behind the kitchen tap.
I set the pints on the front steps at night.

In the morning I heard the milk float pull to a stop.
Heard the clink of the bottle exchange, old for new.
The milkman put the empties in crates
in the back of the milk float.
Sometimes this happened before the sun was even up.

Now, in the Downtown Eastside,
We buy the milk in cartons from the shop.
I see more milk crates, but I see them
in your room.

Crates stack on top of each other in the corner
beside the fridge or by the window.
There are crates you keep vinyl records in.

The crates also hold papers you have yet to sort through
and bits of musician type gadgets that I don’t understand.

It is sometime around payday.
I have money anyway.
The kind of thing that matters.
Money and kissing.
I walk down East Hastings,
along where I used to sit in the passenger seat.
We would go to S2 or the Princeton for brunch
or the Ethiopian Place on Commercial.
You see me walking and pull over.
Yesterday I daydreamed
My laptop on the pub table in
Front of me about
Whatever this thing was.

When I lived in England the milkman
left the full pint bottles on the doorstep.
Now, in the Downtown Eastside,
I see more milk crates but I see them in
my room.

 

by Wendy Stewart

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