the north pole

i want to go
to the north pole
she tells you as you
sit licking an
italian ice
in brooklyn. sure,
go, who's stopping
you, you tell
her. the strawberry
juice is running
down your chin
and onto your
white t-shirt. she
points it out to you
and you dab at it
with a thin napkin,
then shrug. i'll bleach
it when i get home.
let's both go to the
north pole, she says
again excitedly.
maybe, you tell her,
tipping the paper
cone to your lips
to get the melting
syrup.  oh come on,
you never want to do
anything fun. but we
don't have any sled
dogs, or back packs.
i think we need ice
picks and stuff too,
right? maybe a compass.
she begins to cry.
you never want to
do what i want to do.
it's obvious you don't
love me. do you?
what flavor did you get,
you ask her,
give me a taste.
what about the south
pole? is it warmer there?