the tinkling kiss,
tween silver bell
and the windowed door,
at the ice cream store,
announces with the delight of
a tingling excite
a novitiate,
a well scrubbed innocente,
a suckering, youthful customer
has entered the store
all the ice cream poems stand up straight,
paying cold attention,
the little boy ones,
fix their crookedly crooked bow ties,
the little girl ones,
pat down their crinkly crinolines,
all best behavior-ed,
shivering cold from hot anticipation,
the idea, the conception
of becoming
the chosen one,
invited outside,
for delight,
the pleasure of melting into
sweet, sad loving death,
in the smiling mouth
of a young fan & reader
now, they all know the rules,
no calling out!
just stand in frozen attention,
glistening, shimmering,
displaying their true coloration,
hoping to be the selected election
but that rascally bad boy,
with salty language,
yes, the salty caramel one,
can, in his over-sized container,
no longer can contain himself,
screaming out
with an aura of entitlement
"pick me, pick me,"
read me, eat me,
favor my flavor"
all thirty one flavors,
one for every day of the month,
start to shout,
like a raucous caucus
of politicians huffing and puffing,
wheezing and whining,
pretend crying
for the favored blessing of your vote,
"pick me, pick me,"
read me, eat me,
favor my flavor"
there is even a
"flavor of the day,"
usually a newly minted green poet,
a chipped one,
seeking to find a permanent home
for its fresh faced tasty, word sensation,
but after thousands of plastic spoon samplings,
nonetheless melty-dies in the corner, alone and forgotten,
for fame is fleeting, and not always long term good eating
so many to choose, got the poetic ice cream blues,
sweet slow aching of loving infatuation for the iceiest of
tongued-licking caressing, the only way to be consumed
organically
"pick me, pick me,"
read me, eat me,
*favor my flavor"