At the Soda Shoppe

The poem sits coyly at the counter of the Soda Shoppe, waiting to be discovered, slowly sipping an egg cream. Making it last all day, the creamy lukewarm liquid drips down its poetically pointed chin, a sticky puddle forming at its iambic feet. The Soda Shoppe’s bell tinkles; a thirsty reader breathlessly arrives. Taking a stool next to the poem, she reaches over and lifts the creation to her lips. Tasting its invigorating words, she sucks down its essence of life, grins and leaves. Reveling in being discovered, the poem sits coyly at the counter of the Soda Shoppe. The Soda Shoppe’s bell tinkles. In the throes of a moon-in-June love quarrel, a young couple enters. Sitting on the other side of the poem, they decry the sticky mess on the floor. Dripping with the dregs of saccharine philosophy, the poem chuckles, “It’s so sad when uncultured people don’t realize what delights are just within reach.”