Cold Case: A Missing Hour of Afternoon

I step out from a second-story window, float along roads of slow-churning lullabies, raptured in response to ice cream truck’s bellow. A clear case of cold sugar—wide gumball eyes, mobile memories wrapped in coats of corn-snow hugged around a wood hourglass of time lengthwise, waiting to be licked clean, gently insisting that day pay its weight, in words worth frozen cream.