The Ice Cream Truck Man is out there again. I waved hello, and he waved back.
How much does he make an hour I wondered? Maybe two dollars.
Can’t afford gasoline or a proper oil change.
Yet he still blasts a lullaby, luring in the young
who don’t have cash.
Like the boy who sweeps up your spilled popcorn at the theater.
Or the elderly woman stacking up grocery carts in the parking lot.
How much do you care to part with?
How much are you willing to gain on their backs?
Our dementia-ridden president wouldn't break bread with a barista.
What did you expect?
And I cry so longingly with the boy drying my cleaned car,
while the sun touched down in Iran.
More humans stacked upon heaps of humans
who just wanted a decent job.
In Babylon, those endless gardens,
to hope for a place with nature,
without promise of sale.
We have no idea where the Ice Cream Truck Man goes at night.
We have no idea what loneliness scorches.
Why watermelon is on sale again because there’s just too much.
Too much in this empty world without love for the woman sewing your boxers.
We are slaves to ourselves.
Can you hold that in your heart?
Can you sell me a different wish?
Can you buy at least one popsicle from the Ice Cream Truck Man?
About the Creator
Paul Aaron Domenick
I write to break the psyche in half. What good are words unless they turn us upside down and shake us?
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