Wednesday, February 22, 2017

Bells, a poem


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.

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