THE BUCOLIC MILK ROUTE
~Douglas Scott Arey
One of man’s most wistful dreams
Is to jump into a time machine,
So visit a place that time forgot –
My old milkman’s route; a wonderful spot.
I’d pass purveyors of country knick-knacks,
Always operating kitschy tourist traps,
To soon see lush, rolling rural hills
Displaying gorgeous flowers, with many fancy frills.
And travel past rabbits and red-furred foxes
Before starting the route, opening insulated milk boxes,
All full of many pleasing prizes –
My farmer customers’ homegrown surprises.
Big brown eggs, green peppers and grapes,
Strawberries, cantaloupes, and even steaks
Or the farm’s wife had just baked a cake –
But there was always something for me to take.
This wasn’t a job, but lots of fun –
No boss hovered over me, just the ol’ summer sun.
And as I “worked”, under the cool of the trees,
I just loved being foot-loose, and fancy-free
As I’d eat lunch beside a bubbling brook –
Because after this stuffing, t’was no need to cook.
So as I say goodbye, you should never wonder why
We savor our memories, as our days pass us by.