The milkman used to come up this way,
Bringing us his creamy milk, and stories, back in the day.
A dusty train followed him, rising up into the sky,
His buggy drove low, but his spirits sang high.
In my mind, I still see his horse-drawn car,
And would know he was coming a mile afar,
Winding the turns up the mountain,
The hum of his voice, his songs of life rising up like a fountain.
The knock on our doorstep to announce he had come,
He’d jump from his buggy and from his milk jars pick some,
In exchange for your nickel, a smile gave he.
He waved to the children, bounced the baby on his knee.
The children smiled gaily as they waved back,
Their faces stained white, his milk a fine snack.
And then he’d turn off again and ride down the mountain,
His horses would carry, as light as a feather
You’d hear the thousand milk jugs banging together,
The noise of his laughter getting smaller as he made his descent.
But you knew he’d come back after the day’s crescent.

And I knew something was wrong, when I woke the next morn,
The children were crying and the morning paper was torn.
The milkman, read the news, was found dead late last night,
His work clothes all bloodied, his carriage a sight.
The milk jars were broken, and the ground stained red,
As stained, as our hearts were when we found out he was dead.
Despite all the news, I waited two hours for the milkman to come,
But wait as I might, the milkman came none.
I went out to the back porch, where the milk usually waited,
And found my youngest son, curled up crying, he was so devastated.
Our town was dead from a murder, dead from a rage, dead from a stranger,
The masked man who put our town’s happiness in danger.
As he put the knife through our milkman’s beating chest,
He had robbed us that night of the man we loved best.