I’m Not a Poet Because I Walked Into an Ice Cream Store
and decisions have slowed to indoor summer,
lifeless ice lowercased, smelling of Freon
and chemicals belonging in mops.
My grandfathers twiddled the berry, hid
the fig, glanced at orangey skies out
of spite for fear, worshipping dirt.
“Two scoops of Cookie Monster,
please,” with a tiny desire to help
the world with words. Honest:
That’s what I want to do with my life,
each moment to matter, keeping it healthy
on milk-ink while sugared fur grows in my throat.
“Two scoops of the Cookie Monster, please.”
The Virgin Mary, she couldn’t hear me
because she was praying a frozen rosary.
Chances of God living inside waffle cones are
kiddie scoop to none. She finally hand-dipped it
and I winked as I tipped and the drawer clanged shut.