at the end of the day

you see
the man who drives
the mr. softee truck
at the liquor store.
he's wearing
his white
pants and white
t-shirt,
greyed by the summer
heat.
you see the strawberry
stains.
the chocolate
and nuts
on the edge of
his pants,
his cuffs.
he doesn't see you
as he puts
on the counter
a pile of nickels
and quarters
to get his
pint of bourbon.
it's better for
the both of you to
not say hello.