Photo by Michelle Tsang on Unsplash
Every night for dessert,
I knew just what I’d eat.
Ice cream of varying flavors,
made into my own special treat.
At first I called it froyo,
but my brother said no, that’s not right.
There was no yogurt in my concoction,
just churning my ice cream with all my might.
Stabbing at and then swirling,
it didn’t matter the filling or even the topping.
I just had to get my ice scream silky smooth,
and did so without stopping.
Eventually it would blend,
and make my soft serve soupy ice cream.
It was worth all the world every time,
my smooth treat was like a hard earned come true dream.
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About the Creator
Josey Pickering
Autistic, non-binary, queer horror nerd with a lot to say.
Comments (2)
I used to do this too as a kid! Always stirring it into soup and looking at the paths my spoon left in it and its slight graininess.
Omgggg, I'm so guilty of doing this too!! Loved your poem!