It's a poem about an ice cream truck.
How is this poetry?
Why is this poetry?
Isn't it instead a descriptive story of a memory
of a hot, sunny day?
When youth was an active verb
and not a passive noun.
When summer meant freedom and boredom rolled
into a sticky mess of cold grape slush
that slid down your wrist and over your arm
as you bit - brain freeze - into the last chunk of Popsicle
on the stained wooden stick.
When catching fireflies, and pop flies, and telling lies to your parents
that no, you hadn't been in the envelope marked "Gas"
poorly hidden in the top drawer of mom's dresser,
you got that ten dollars from your aunt at your last birthday,
blurred into a single long day that stretched from June 'til September,
Until the jingle of that ice cream truck stopped singing,
the weasel disappearing into a cement hole
to be forgotten during the frigid month of winter only
to emerge when the sun cooked the ground once more.
But no, it's considered a poem.
A poem about an ice cream truck.