Express Dairy

I walked home from the station, silent street, sweating night.
A milk float hummed towards me, doing 40, quite a sight.

The milkman wore his firm’s peaked cap, his own bare chest.
The woman sat beside him, blouse open, baby at breast.

They passed, and their mixed laughter echoed along the street.
There was no milk on the back, not at this hour, in this heat.

Listen to this poem — read by Zawe Ashton