the clang of a cow bell

like the gong

of a large

metal cow bell, my body

longs

for an ice

cold glass of whole milk.

it comes out

of nowhere.

the thirst is that of

youth,

i imagine, when milk

was plentiful,

not worrisome.

not thinned,

or made of almonds.

with

every meal

there was a glass in

my small hand and

a pitcher on the table

sweating

from the ice box.

standing tall

beside a stack of white

bread and butter.