Mr. Softee


Tum tadada dadum turum

fake bells chime the tune

“pop goes the weasel”
the children reach new states of extacy
mothers instinctively think of spoiled lunches
while reaching for their purses

indecision plagues the kinder
pointing pudgy fingers
“this one”
shifting aim
“this one”

the screams call out the past generations
nostalgia of the song and
longing for indecision they order direct
“plain please”

the mothers arrive with executive power
feet are planted
feet are stomped
it’s never enough

when the man hands down the bubble-nosed “Wild Bill”
or the cartoon-of-the-day-shaped ice

still more, the chocolate/vanilla swirl
cone with sprinkles
or without

all problems are forgotten

back to the playground
back to the lawn chairs
back to the delayed morning paper

Tum tadada dadum turum
he pulls away
things return to normal


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