Sources of Milk

         Part I

On the drive to mother’s place
I always cut cross-country.

In one little valley, there sits a dairy farm
where manure hangs pungent like yellow fog
and the soil stays moist with feces.
I slow my car enough to glimpse the scene
in snapshots.

Hundreds of Holsteins lace sodden trails
from hillside to road’s edge.
Swollen udders of indifferent beasts,
chewing side-to-side in slivers of drool,
and no social code is broken when one emits
an arcing urine stream.
Beside the barn, Mexicans gather to smoke and commune
the way that workers will.

Across the road, a rusted trailer rests precariously
on cinderblocks, potential storm season footage.
Vulgar green shutters frame a plywood eye-patch
and the plastic turtle pool sinks in mire
beneath a “Des Colores” flag
which juts from the broke-down porch.

         Part II

It is a wicked brew that brings me each Sunday,
aches of guilt and caring, the twisted love of a son
required to watch the final act.
From the porch we stare at distant points
I endure stutter and sputter tales of her dying world
and the sad sight of those wistful droops that once fed me.
For adventure, I coax her from her four-wall world
for a country drive, and we stop for milkshakes.

         Part III

I live the bachelor life style
so sometimes expiration dates escape my notice.
A big drink from a tall glass sends me stumbling to the sink
I spit the rancid mouthful, wretch in dry spasms,
pour half a gallon down the drain
and think of Mexicans, mother, and milk.