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Poem

There is a future. say the magazines,
where ice cream cones coast down
wet slides, and color rules,
where sadness is postponed another day.
All the obscene profits are for kings
who plot such things.
You read in all the magazines
of wildness waiting in the wings
where common sense should rule.
It is a thing that teachers sometimes said,
but never in a school,
God damn them...
they would teach on corners of a busy street
had they been truly called.

It's four o'clock,
and ice cream time again--
lost upon old men,
but for the careful eye of that sweet boy of ten,
who stands there watching by the freezer
as the shuffling shopman bends
to dip the luscious stuff
one time, and two, and three for a nickle
in the flavor of the week.

The weary one goes home
to pet the dog and read about the war,
the thirty-seventh time
before fried ham and yesterday's potato salad
hit the serving bowls...
he would not ask for wine...
and anyway,
a cup of kindness cannot quite
assuage the appetite.
             ~

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