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.
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