we grew up and left

when the ice cream

truck rolled down the street
we appeared.

a motley crew
of children holding sticky coins

found
between cushions, or
taken
from a mother's purse

while she was hanging clothes
on the line
out back.

the bell ringing, the music
a strange
recording,

a carnival in a blue boxed
truck.
pictures of his fare
stuck
to the sides.

and the grinning man inside,
unshaven
in a white t shirt, white
pants.

taking our change, whether
it was enough
or not.

he watched as we grew, summer
after summer.

then he never came down our
street again.