Its Sunday afternoon
You wanted ice cream
But it's to hot to float
In the summers sun

You cried,  I felt  bad
And made you a slushie
You gave me a dollar
With some numbers
It made me smile
Knowing that a stranger
Would call you that night.

The hopeful of being understood
Is always wanted
Even for a glimpse, from a voice
Never before heard

Sunday evening is over
You want to be left alone
But, there is no one to let know
Instead now you think
Just because someone else has your taste
Doesn't mean they want your spoon.