cone
for me and my
then love
interest Lisa, in Georgetown,
one summer night.
gourmet ice-cream, expensive.
made with milk from local
free range cows.
nothing but
the best for Lisa.
she got
a single scoop of butter pecan
in a cup,
and i went
with Rocky Road,
two scoops
on a sugar cone.
the cold steam of the case
rose into
the boy's face
as his skinny arm struggled
to dig out
the scoops.
i paid and then we left to walk
down M Street,
licking our
creamy delights.
suddenly the boy was
behind us
grabbing my shoulder.
his paper hat was
tilted sideways on his head
from his frenetic
chase.
you didn't leave
a tip,
he said. there's a change
jar on the counter
and when i gave you
your change you didn't
put it into the cup. not a single
penny or nickel.
what kind of a person are you?
i make my
living on tips.
he looked about sixteen years old.
i imagined his room
in his mother's basement
with posters of Farah Fawcett on
the walls,
a playboy magazine under
his mattress.
i told him i was
sorry and pulled out a dollar
bill,
here, i said. take it.
it's yours. but he refused,
and stormed away.
it was a long time ago, but
it still crosses my mind
whenever i'm in Baskin and Robbins.
i always leave
a tip now.
even if it's a penny.
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