An Exit

She picks the milk from the shelf as I massage
a sponge into the morning’s bowls. In the quiet,

I know she’s reading the expiration date while
the garbage truck shirks from a distance. Faucet

hums closed and she says, “Babe, are you going
to drink this?” It’s been a couple of weeks since

I opened it, dashed it over my cereal. “I think
it’s still good. Leave it in there, I’ll drink it.” But

I know I won’t. Not until the thick and thin white
have separated, not until it’s begun to expand,

not until she opens it, sniffs, proclaims,
“You let it go bad, again” will I say, “I had to be sure.”