(“Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.” Wallace Stevens)
Three round cartons,
a holy triumvirate
of the richest creamiest dessert
sat tempting taste buds
and silver spoons to riot
tonight at your long table.
When the burly surly guard
took his brief break,
I squeezed between the bars
of the cell which confined me
and with a grin
of newfound freedom
hovering above my chin
ladled three flavors of ice cream
lustily,
repeatedly
onto tipped tongue,
waiting like a glistening dolphin
for nourishment
near shore.
Life’s sweet promise
puddled and saturated
the receptor cells
of lips and lingua
with an almost spiritual purity,
golden childhood glee leapt
and turned like a dervish in trance,
my mouth happy and young,
one with it all.
The man in the stiff
starched tan uniform returns
to the scene,
his sour sad face
and holstered pistol
dominate the moment.
Smiling with sticky chin,
I offer a full fat spoon
of soft vanilla
melting the bad dream.
He doffs his high hat,
loosens a wide black belt
and thankfully
reaches for lost
boyhood again.
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