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,
When I rewind the tangled film of that year to replay again,
the transcript hitches, a tainted roll of chromatography paper,
taken out from the closet a few too many times;
when I carefully crop it to the segment in question,