Old Milk

I was five years old,

On a light Christmas morning.

I drank a glass of milk

It was a chocolate tradition.

Foolishly wanting to play, 

I left it to sit and spoil

Until I wanted it again.



There it was.

Staring at me with dead eyes.

A fly.

In my chocolate milk.


A child doesn’t expect to see a bug,

Drowning inside their Christmas cup.

They expect Santa to have eaten their cookies.

Never for them to drop off dead bugs,

When you asked

For a new toy.


I hate you, Santa.

And I sure do hate

Chocolate milk. 

This poem is about: 


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