Every day, he pushes an old creaky cart
up the hill to my place.
The ice cream man.
It’s a long way up
a rocky, steep road.
I’m the last house
on a lonely street.
But he’s old faithful.
The ice cream man.
He used to come with his old man
who showed him the ropes;
who buys, who doesn’t
how to ring the bell
how to rotate the packs
so the ice cream doesn’t
melt so fast.
But now it’s his own route.
His old man can’t
make it up the steep hill
any longer.
After my place, it’s to the hospital
and then finally downhill
to buy some rice, beans and oil
to take home
to his wife and 5 kids.
If he makes that much
after
Eskimo takes its cut.
I buy from him.
Just out of pity.
I know that’s not
sound economics
but what the hell?
I’ll hear that bell
jingling, jangling
and my head will swell
as my day is interrupted
and the dogs start barking too.
I become a raving mad lunatic
but then feel
immense guilt and melt
thinking of the ice cream man
making it all the way up here
day in, day out
rain or shine
cold or hot
7 days a week
just cuz he thought
the Chele would
buy a cone or two.
I guess
we all need a place
to be
like me, this poetry
like him, his ice cream.