Milk Run

by Luke Otley

The car entered the lot
moving slowly, its weight
worked at the loose stones,
tonnes of steel
composed by engineers
now near scrap,
something to smirk at,
headlights clouded with cataracts,
muzzle after our own image,
its dog wet nose
nudging into the parking spot
like a bitch’s crotch.

A boy of maybe three
looked on
adorned in nappy,
innocent chest fat and bare,
dark skin sheened sloe blue
by the moon’s eye,
rubber nipple
under pink tongue.