The Milk Ring

They were talking. Grown-up talk.

I watched the glasses gleam.

A small walk. A small balk.

Then a deliberate stream

of white. The glass tipped.

Slowly. Too slowly, perhaps.

The milk, it dripped

onto the polished lapse

of table. Pale. It spread,

a cold white flower there.

My mother's face went red.

Then still. A perfect stare.

They stopped their talk. They looked.

All of them. Just at me.

A story neatly booked.

A small, sweet victory.