Bells, a poem

Bells

Yesterday is only two blocks

over. If we would cut through the neighbor’s

back yard we might reach it before

it disappears. Hear its fading

ice-cream truck bells? They play

‘Pop Goes the Weasel’ over and over.

We have waited along our own streets

of green summer, listening

for each disappointment. You and I,

listing the flavors for each other,

counting our change — surely, time

must pass us by and take what we offered.

Run, before it turns at the next corner.

Two blocks over; I am sure I heard

it there, ringing each lost promise

into twilight’s mauve blanket. Later, our mothers

may scold us for spoiling our appetite,

but we know tomorrow shall never be as sweet.

Stephen Brooke ©2017

Yes, I know I've done the ice-cream truck imagery before, and the whole suburban childhood thing. Which is perhaps surprising as I had very little of that sort of life as a kid. But of course it isn't really about that.