Strawberry Milk by LaChelle (Sage) Schilling

Strawberry Milk 
by LaChelle (Sage) Schilling
Why did I slip day-old yellow stockings 
over olive knit tights, slap on a matted beanie 
to walk to the market in daylight? 
Some people don’t think you should 
browse when you already have bags of coffee
half-used on the top of a microwave
that needs dusting. I’m simply considering
coming out as a tea drinker,
yet I also turn into the coffee aisle 
just to see the options. 
I actually like the coffee I have:
it’s comfortable and I’m productive with it,
makes me a better person. 
We’ve been off-and-on for 6 years. 
Maybe I shouldn’t even be consuming 
beverages until I get my shit together. 
I cup a caramel chai tea tin, 
thumb its cold foil of cheap around the circumference,
blink at a bag of Columbian cinnamon dark roast,
its blurred cursive motto reminding me of Christmas 1996;
then, ashamed and tired, I cross to the next lane,
toss strawberry milk into my cart 
to devour on the way home, something quick 
that no one will guess.