you are the king
of ice
cream, not the emperor as
the poem
goes, but a king, who
can sit
in the cool of a wind
blown fan,
and spoon
the sweet diary mix,
into your mouth.
hardly a summers day
can go by
without a thought of this.
cradling
the quart
in your lap, while
reading,
or watching tv.
and
the cat, patient as
any cat can be through
the ages
sits nearby, waiting
for her turn,
once the king has finished.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment