The Milkman and the Milkman's Memories

When some brings slow afternoons, with nothing left to do, i take what used to be your garden chair and park it underneath the wayward ash that sidles forward where the garden swerves. Then i conjure up the note book i have found among your bedside things and open it, blank pages, thoughts you never had, or had but could not bring yourself to say. Should i imagine them or write my own? Instead, i close my eyes and scrutinize the white that also lies inside me,. The milk float with its thin mosquito wine straining through larch and elder from the lane. The nervous bottles in their metal basket, intent on music, but without a