Spoiled Milk and Panic Attacks

I bought the milk, it lied,

a confident date two weeks ahead,

but inside, it festered like

regret in a plastic jug.

The clerk didn’t seem to care,

they never do at Aldi.

I think you actually have to have RBF

to be considered for a job.

Or maybe it was predestined

for my greater good,

Salvation for my belly fat.

On the way home,

I ran through a red light, intentionally,

as if we bargained the seconds

when making eye contact,

and some guy in a matte black Honda

gave me the bird with majestic disdain.

It was beautiful, really,

the madness of moments.

A seagull dive-bombed a hot dog cart,

my coffee spilled on my tank

and fragments of my blush palette

crumbled on my nude denim.

My phone died mid-sentence.

But I was mortal, en route,

en-paranoia.

Fumbling with keys,

yelling at clouds that don’t answer.

No algorithm could choreograph

the tribulations of a Tuesday.

Give me the spoiled milk,

the late bus,

the U-turn into the MAGA driveway.

Because every loud pothole thumped,

every bumper that bites a speed bump,

and every honk for the “if you love Jesus” sticker,

sings a hymn to the uncurated.

Let the machines have their polished days,

their sanitized dawns and frictionless dreams.

I’ll take the rot and din,

the bona fide panic of real.