i hear the ice cream man
coming up the street with his
bells
and strange out of tune
percussion of dings and dongs.
his truck is old
and blue, coughs as he shifts
gears.
he moves slow
through the neighborhood,
his head looking
from house to house.
in time the kids appear
with dollars in hand,
parents on the porch
making sure the streets
are clear.
the dogs come running too.
i put on my shirt, my pants,
my shoes.
i grab a quarter from
the bowl and run out,
trying to decide on a nutty
buddy, or a creamsicle.
either one will do.
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