Every summer evening
I spend at home I know it
is 9 o'clock by the familiar
song from the
beat up ice cream truck
that creeps through Canton.

The truck is plain and grey-
no pictures of smiling faces
or advertisements for snow cones,
just those high pitched notes repeating
over and over and over.

It never stops.
No children sprint, ecstatic from
sweaty row homes.
No cones are coveted
by sticky fingers.

Who is this man who
drives up and down our streets
luring us in with a familiar jingle
I can't quite place as I pace
around my living room?

Perhaps he peddles magic potions
or prescription drugs to
expectant inner city addicts,
stopping only for those with
that telling shaky stammer.

Or maybe he transports
illegal immigrants
huddled behind his tinted windows
to obscure locations.

The only thing that is certain
is that it is 9  o'clock every time
I hear those notes.

Does he laugh at us as
we glance out our windows,
considering a late night treat but
always disappointed as he drives away?