adventures in dysthymia

Friday, September 09, 2016

The Last Ice Cream, a poem

The Last Ice Cream

The last ice cream of summer
melted along the curbs of suburban
streets, as bicycles lay
waiting on the neighbors’ lawn,

waiting to take us on one
more adventure. How far could
we pedal? Across the tracks
(where we weren’t supposed to go)

or only up the street to the park —
it really was up the street;
we coasted most of the way back
beneath the supple shade of half-grown

maples. I would not listen
for that jingle and that song
next summer; I would not know
where to look. The last

ice cream of summer was truly
the last ice cream of summer,
summer that came only once
and never returned.

Stephen Brooke ©2016

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