Happiest of all had to have been the milk, finally
so free from the ill fated and ill fitting
pitcher, as it skit skat and skee booped its way
past the Grand Canyon, and the Eiffel Tower,
and grandma’s final resting place before finally,
exhausted and solemn, settling in the lowest point
of the highest peak of the furthest mountain. All the
wobbly billy goats amazed at its sure footedness.
Together they discussed and decided to combine
their skills and so surely, yet slowly, made their
way through the wholly treacherous sky, so slippy
with soft clouds, so dewy, so thin, to heaven, where
the unseen night and the undaunted milk could
rest with some tea, before moving on to concur
the steep trajectory to the edge of the galaxy,
where’d they look back, and feel the joy of
succeeding. The vastness lasted forever, until
the milk became homesick, longing for the encompassing
embrace of the chilly glass container it’d lost, and
it went back to the kitchen while the billies stayed
to test their balance on the stars, and watched it go
                                                                        on its milky way.

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