The milk spills,
A slow, soundless slop onto the floor.
Slobbered tears dripping from a rubber teat.
-A second’s hush-
before
misery cascades:
The baby flings the leaking bottle,
accidentally whomping the lurking toddler
Who, sobbing profusely,
stumbles over the slurping puppy
and tromps her trickling tail,
unleashing a hurricane of howls,
which whips the baby into a glorious torrent of wails.
A streaming teeming whitewater deluge.
It may be a truism that there is no use in crying over spilled milk.
But that’s because every grownup knows: The kids got it covered.
Prompt: Write a poem that argues against, or somehow questions, a proverb or saying.
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