Ice-cream, 1980.
It is a winter afternoon and time for ice-cream.
Sixteen flavors, maybe eighteen, a miracle
Emerging unscathed from deep inside a push cart.
The plastic menu sways slightly with temptations, forbidden
Except for the week we spend away from home every year.
Strawberry scent overwhelms staid vanilla which remains
The leader of taste but loses to the crunch of tutti-frutti.
Choc-o-rocket tempts but stern signals are sent to avoid
It melts fastest and who will wash the shirt afterward?
The cup needs quick consumption because the heat is rising
And urchins will soon tug, making eye contact before we can walk.
The deed done, we saunter past hawker stalls pushed out of place
By the metro which will one day bear us swiftly to our busy lives.
For now, ice-cream in our stomachs, we are princes till 6 pm
And any dream is permitted while it can be held in a cup.
